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IMAGmATION  AND  FANCY; 


OR 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


XHustratfbe  of  tijosc  Jffrst  Bequfsfles  of  t|)efr  0rt ; 


WITH  MARKINGS  OF  THE  BEST  PASSAGES,  CRITICAL  NOTICES 
OF  THE  WRITERS, 


AND  AN  ESSAY  IN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

"WHAT  IS  POETRY?" 

BT 

LEIGH   HUNT. 


4» 

NEW  YORK : 
WILEY  AND  PUTNAM,  161  BROADWAY 

1845. 


€ 


C- .-..  u- 4...  '    ^ 


E.  CliAioHBAD's  Power  Fresa  Stereotyped  by  T.  B.  Smith, 

113  Fulton  Street.  j.  216"  William  Street 


9o3 


Pftw 


CONTENTS 


PREFACE  ...                     !"• 

AN  ANSWEB   TO  THE  QUESTION,  "WHAT  IS  POETRY?"  .  .        1 

SELECTIONS  FROM  SPENSER,  WITH  CRITICAL  NOTICE                 .          .  49 

ARCHIMAGO's    HERMITAGE    AND    THE    HOUSE    OF    MORPHEUS             .  54 

THE   CAVE   OF   MAMM93V    AND   GARDEN    OF   PROSERPINE           .            .  62 

A    GALLERY    OF    PICTURES    FROM    SPENSER 72 

(Spenser  considered  as  the  Poet  of  the  Painters.) 

CHARISSA,    OR    CHARITY    ...                          77 

HOPE              ...                        78 

CUPID    USURPING    THE    THRONE    OF   JUPITER  .  .  .  .78 

MARRIAGE   PROCESSION   OF   THE   THAMES   AND   MEDWAY        .            .  79 

SIR    GUYON   BINDING   FUROR .            .  80 

UNA,    OR    FAITH    IN    DISTRESS                .......  80 

JUPITER    AND    MAIA              .........  82 

NIGHT    AND    THE    WITCH    DUESSA      .......  83 

VENUS    IN    SEARCH    OF    CUPID,    COMING   TO    DIANA  .  .  .85 

MAY 86 

AN    ANGEL    WITH    A    PILGRIM    AND    A    FAINTING    KNIGHT       .             .  87 

AURORA    AND    TITHONUS               ........  88 

THE    BRIDE    AT   THE    ALTAR 89 

A    NYMPH    BATHING  ......  .89 

THE    CAVE    OF    DESPAIR                   90 

A   KNIGHT   IN    BRIGHT   ARMOR,   LOOKING   INTO    A   CAVE          .            .  91 

MALBECCO    SEES    HELLENORE    DANCING  WITH    THE    SATYRS                .  93 
LANDSCAPE,    WITH    DAMSELS    CONVEYING  A  WOUNDED  SQUIRE  ON 

HIS    HORSE                            93 

THE    NYMPHS    AND    GRACES     DANCING    TO    A     SHEPHERd's     PIPE; 

OR,    APOTHEOSIS    OF    A    POET's    MISTRESS                ...  93 


ir  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

A   PlilTME    OF   FEATHERS   AND   AN    ALMOND   TREE               .            .            .95 
ENCHANTED   MUSIC 96 

SELECTIONS    FROM    MARLOWE,    WITH   CRITICAL    NOTICE        .          .      97 
THE  JEW  OF  Malta's  idea  of  wealth 100 

A    VISION    OF    HELEN 102 

MYTHOLOGY    AND   COURT   AMUSEMENTS  ....  103 

BEAUTY   BEYOND    EXPRESSION 103 

THE   PASSIONATE    SHEPHERD   TO    HIS   LOVE 104 

SELECTIONS    FROM    SHAKSPEARE    WITH    CRITICAL    NOTICE  .  .   IQO 

whole  story  of  the  tempest 108 

macbeth  and  the  witches iig 

the  quarrel  of  oberon  and  titania 121 

the  bridal  house  blessed  by  the  fairies      .        .        .         ,  130 

Lovers  and  music 131 

antony  and  the  clouds 13(5 

young  warriors 137 

imogen  in  bed ,        .        .        .  138 

SELECTIONS    FROM    BEN    JONSON,    WITH    CRITICAL    NOTICE  .   140 

TO    CYNTHIA;    THE    MOON 142 

THE    LOVE-MAKING    OF   LUXURY .  .    142 

TOWERING    SENSUALITY    .  .  . 143 

THE   WITCH 145 

A   MEETING  OF    WITCHES 146 

A    CATCH    OF    SATYRS 14S 

SELECTIONS    FROM    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER,  WITH  CRITICAL 

NOTICE 150 

MELANCHOLY 152 

A   SATYR     PRESENTS  A    BASKET   OF   FRUIT    TO    THE    FAITHFUL 

SHEPHERDESS 153 

A    SPOT    FOR    LOVE    TALES  ........    155 

MORNING  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .    155 

THE    POWER    OF    LOVE  .  156 

INVOCATION    TO    SLEEP       .........    157 

SELECTIONS    FROM    MIDDLETON,    DECKER,    AND    WEBSTER,  WITH 

CRITICAL    NOTICE 15S 

FLIGHT   OF   WITCHES      .  162 


CONTENTS.  T 

Page. 

THE    CHRISTIAN    LADY    AND   THE    ANGEL 164 

LADIES    DANCING 166 

APRIL   AND   women's   TEARS                ...                        ...  167 

DEATH         .                         167 

PATIENCE                          *  167 

A   WICKED   DREAM 168 

NATURAL    DEATH       ....                          169 

FUNERAL    DIRGE 170 

DISSIMULATION 170 

BEAUTEOUS    MORAL  EXAMPLE 171 

UNLOV^ELINESS    OF    FROWNING 171 

SELECTIONS    FROM    MILTON,  WITH    CRITICAL    NOTICE    .  .  .172 

Satan's  recovery  from  his  downfall 174 

the  fallen  angels  gathered  again  to  war       .        .        .  175 

VULCAN        ...  177 

THE    FALLEN    ANGELS    HEARD    RISING    FROM    COUNCIL  .  .    177 

SATAN    ON    THE    WING    FOR    EARTH 178 

THE    MEETING    OF    SATAN    AND    DEATH 178 

l' ALLEGRO 180 

IL   PENSEROSO 186 

LYCIDAS 191 

COMUS    THE    SORCERER 199 

SELECTIONS    FROM    COLERIDGE,    WITH    CRITICAL    NOTICE      .  .  202 

LOVE  ;    OR,    GENEVIEVE .  .    207 

KUBLA    KHAN -  .  .    210 

YOUTH    AND    AGE       .  .  - 212 

THE  HEATHEN    DIVINITIES    MERGED    INTO    ASTROLOGY  .  .    213 

WORK    WITHOUT    HOPE        .........    214 

SELECTIONS    FROM    SHELLEY,    WITH    CRITICAL    NOTICE  .  .  215 

TO    A    SKYLARK  218 

A    GARISH    DAY 223 

CONTEMPLATION    OF    VIOLENCE 224 

A   ROCK    AND   CHASM 224 

LOVELINESS    INEXPRESSIBLE 225 

EXISTENCE    IN    SPACE 225 

DEVOTEDNESS   UNREQUIRING 225 


vi  CONTENTS. 

Page 

TO   A    LADY   WITH   A    GUITAR 226 

MUSIC,   MEMORY,    AND   LOVE  . 2^ 

SELECTIONS    FROM    KEATS,  WITH    CRITICAL    NOTICE       .  .  .  230 

THE    EVE    OF    ST.  AGNES 233 

LONELY    SOUNDS 249 

ORION 249 

CIRCE    AND    HER    VICTIMS  .  .  " 249 

A  BETTER   ENCHANTRESS  IMPRISONED    IN    THE   SHAPE    OF  A  SER- 
PENT   250 

SATURN   DETHRONED 250 

THE    VOICE    OF   A   MELANCHOLY   GODDESS   SPEAKING   TO   SATURN.    251 

A   FALLEN  GOD 251 

OTHER    TITANS    FALLEN  .  .  ....    251 

ODE    TO    A    NIGHTINGALE  ....  ...   252 

SONNET   ON    FIRST    LOOKING    TNTO    CHAPMAN's    HOMER  .  .   254 


PREFACE 


This  book  is  intended  for  all  lovers  of  poetry  and  the  sis- 
ter arts,  but  more  especially  for  those  of  the  most  poetical 
sort,  and  most  especially  for  the  youngest  and  the  oldest : 
for  as  the  former  may  incline  to  it  for  information's  sake, 
the  latter  will  perhaps  not  refuse  it  their  good-will  for  the 
sake  of  old  favorites.  The  Editor  has  often  wished  for 
such  a  book  himself;  and  as  nobody  will  make  it  for  him, 
he  has  made  it  for  others. 

It  was  suggested  by  the  approbation  which  the  readers 
of  a  periodical  work  bestowed  on  some  extracts  from  the 
poets,  commented,  and  marked  with  italics,  on  a  principle 
of  co-perusal,  as  though  the  Editor  were  reading  the  pas- 
sages in  their  company.  Those  readers  wished  to  have 
more  such  extracts  ;  and  here,  if  they  are  still  in  the  mind, 
they  now  possess  them.  The  remarks  on  one  of  the 
poems  that  formed  a  portion  of  the  extracts  (the  Eve  of 
Saint  Agnes),  are  repeated  in  the  present  volume.  All  the 
rest  of  the  matter  contributed  by  him  is  new.  He  does  not 
expect,  of  course,  that  every  reader  will  agree  with  the 
preferences  of  particular  lines  or  passages,  intimated  by 
the  italics.  Some  will  think  them  too  numerous ;  some 
perhaps  too  few ;  many  who  chance  to  take  up  the  book^ 
may  wish  there  had  been  none  at  all ;  but  these  will  have 


PREFACE. 


the  goodness  to  recollect  what  has  just  been  stated, — that 
the  plan  was  suggested  by  others  who  desired  them.  The 
Editor,  at  any  rate,  begs  to  be  considered  as  having  mark- 
ed the  passages  in  no  spirit  of  dictation  to  any  one,  much 
less  of  disparagement  to  all  the  admirable  passages  not 
marked.  If  he  assumed  anything  at  all  (beyond  what  is 
implied  in  the  fact  of  imparting  experience),  it  was  the  pro- 
bable mutual  pleasure  of  the  reader,  his  companion ;  just 
as  in  reading  out-loud,  one  instinctively  increases  one's  em- 
phasis here  and  there,  and  implies  a  certain  accordance  of 
enjoyment  on  the  part  of  the  hearers.  In  short,  all  poetic 
readers  are  expected  to  have  a  more  than  ordinary  portion 
of  sympathy,  especially  with  those  who  take  pains  to 
please  them ;  and  the  Editor  desires  no  larger  amount  of 
it,  than  he  gratefully  gives  to  any  friend  who  is  good  enough 
to  read  out  similar  passages  to  himself. 

The  object  of  the  book  is  threefold  ; — to  present  the 
public  with  some  of  the  finest  passages  in  English  poetry, 
so  marked  and  commented; — to  furnish  such  an  account, 
in  an  Essay,  of  the  nature  and  requirements  of  poetry,  as 
may  enable  readers  in  general  to  give  an  answer  on  those 
points  to  themselves  and  others  ; — and  to  show,  throughout 
the  greater  part  of  the  volume,  what  sort  of  poetry  is  to 
be  considered  as  poetry  of  the  most  poetical  kind^  or  such 
as  exhibits  the  imagination  and  fancy  in  a  state  of  pre- 
dominance, undisputed  by  interests  of  another  sort.  Poe- 
try, therefore,  is  not  here  in  its  compound  state,  great  or 
otherwise  (except  incidentally  in  the  Essay),  but  in  its  ele- 
ment, like  an  essence  distilled.  All  the  greatest  poetry  in- 
cludes that  essence,  but  the  essence  does  not  present  itself 
in  exclusive  combination  with  the  greatest /orm  of  poetry. 
It  varies  in  that  respect  from  the  most  tremendous  to  the 


PREFACE. 


most  playful  effasions,  and  from  imagination  to  fancy 
through  all  their  degrees; — from  Homer  and  Dante,  to 
Coleridge  and  Keats  ; — from  Shakspeare  in  King  Lear,  to 
Shakspeare  himself  in  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream; 
from  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene,  to  the  Castle  of  Indolence  ; 
nay,  from  Ariel  in  the  Tempest,  to  his  somewhat  pre- 
sumptuous namesake  in  the  Rape  of  the  Lock.  And  pas- 
sages, both  from  Thomson's  delightful  allegory,  and  Pope's 
paragon  of  mock-heroics,  would  have  been  found  in  this 
volume,  but  for  that  intentional,  artificial  imitation,  even  in 
the  former,  which  removes  them  at  too  great  a  distance 
from  the  highest  sources  of  inspiration. 

With  the  great  poet  of  the  Faerie  Queene  the  Editor  has 
taken  special  pains  to  make  readers  in  general  better  ac- 
quainted ;  and  in  furtherance  of  this  purpose  he  has  ex- 
hibited many  of  his  best  passages  in  remarkable  relation 
to  the  art  of  the  Painter. 

For  obvious  reasons  no  living  writer  is  included;  and 
some,  lately  deceased,  do  not  come  within  the  plan.  The 
omission  will  not  be  thought  invidious  in  an  Editor,  who 
has  said  more  of  his  contemporaries  than  most  men ;  and 
who  would  gladly  give  specimens  of  the  latter  poets  in 
future  volumes. 

One  of  the  objects  indeed  of  this  preface  is  to  state,  that 
should  the  Public  evince  a  willingness  to  have  more  such 
books,  the  Editor  would  propose  to  give  them,  in  succes- 
sion, corresponding  volumes  of  the  Poetry  of  Action  and 
Passion  (Narrative  and  Dramatic  Poetry),  from  Chaucer 
to  Campbell  (here  mentioned  because  he  is  the  latest  de- 
ceased poet) ;  the  Poetry  of  Contemplation,  from  Surrey 
to  Campbell ; — the  Poetry  of  Wit  and  Humor,  from  Chau- 
cer to  Byron  ;  and  the  Poetry  of  Song,  or  Lyrical  Poetry,  * 


PREFACE. 


from  Chaucer  again  (see  in  his  Works  his  admirable  and 
only  song,  beginning 

Hide,  Absalom,  thy  gilded  tresses  clear), 

to  Campbell  again,  and  Burns,  and  O'Keefe.  These  vo- 
lumes,  if  he  is  not  mistaken,  would  present  the  Public  with 
the  only  selection^  hitherto  made,  of  none  hut  genuine  poe- 
try ;  and  he  would  take  care,  that  it  should  be  unobjection- 
able in  every  other  respect.* 

Keicsington,  Sept.  10,  1844. 

*  While  closing  the  Essay  on  Poetry,  a  friend  lent  me  Coleridge*s  Bio- 
graphia  Literaria,  which  I  had  not  seen  for  many  years,  and  which  I 
mention,  partly  to  notice  a  coincidence  at  page  31  of  the  Essay,  not  other- 
wise worth  observation ;  and  partly  to  do  what  I  can  towards  extending  the 
acquaintance  of  the  public  with  a  book  containing  masterly  expositions  of 
Jie  art  of  poetry. 


AN  ANSWER  TO  THE   QUESTION 

¥HAT  IS  POETRY? 


INCLUDING 


REMARKS  ON  VERSIFICATION 


Poetry,  strictly  and  artistically  so  called,  that,  is  to  say,  con- 
sidered not  merely  as  poetic  feeling,  which  is  more  or  less 
shared  by  all  the  world,  but  as  the  operation  of  that  feeling, 
such  as  we  see  it  in  the  poet's  book,  is  the  utterance  of  a  pas- 
sion for  truth,  beauty  and  power,  embodying  and  illustrating  its 
conceptions  by  imagination  and  fancy,  and  modulating  its  lan- 
guage on  the  principle  of  variety  in  uniformity.  Its  means 
are  whatever  the  universe  contains ;  and  its  ends,  pleasure  and 
exaltation.  Poetry  stands  between  nature  and  convention, 
keeping  alive  among  us  the  enjoyment  of  the  external  and 
spiritual  world :  it  has  constituted  the  most  enduring  fame  of 
nations ;  and,  next  to  Love  and  Beauty,  which  are  its  parents, 
is  the  greatest  proof  to  man  of  the  pleasure  to  be  found  in  all 
things,  and  of  the  probable  riches  of  infinitude. 

Poetry  is  a  passion,*  because  it  seeks  the  deepest  impressions; 
and  because  it  must  undergo,  in  order  to  convey  them. 

It  is  a  passion  for  truth,  because  without  truth  the  impression 
would  be  false  or  defective. 

It  is  a  passion  for  beauty,  because  its  office  is  to  exalt  and  re- 
fine by  means  of  pleasure,  and  because  beauty  is  nothing  but 
the  loveliest  form  of  pleasure. 

*  PassiOi  suffering  in  a  good  sense, — ardent  subjection  of  one's  self  to 
emotion 

2 


AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 


It  is  a  passion  for  power,  because  power  is  impression  tri- 
umphant, whether  over  the  poet,  as  desired  by  himself,  or  over 
the  reader,  as  affected  by  the  poet. 

It  embodies  and  illustrates  its  impressions  by  imagination,  or 
images  of  the  objects  of  which  it  treats,  and  other  images 
brought  in  to  throw  light  on  those  objects,  in  order  that  it  may 
enjoy  and  impart  the  feeling  of  their  truth  in  its  utmost  convic 
tion  and  affluence. 

It  illustrates  them  by  fancy,  which  is  a  lighter  play  of  imagi- 
nation, or  the  feeling  of  analogy  coming  short  of  seriousness, 
in  order  that  it  may  laugh  with  what  it  loves,  and  show  how  it 
can  decorate  it  with  fairy  ornament. 

It  modulates  what  it  utters,  because  in  running  the  whole 
round  of  beauty  it  must  needs  include  beauty  of  sound ;  and 
because,  in  the  height  of  its  enjoyment,  it  must  shov/  the  per- 
fection of  its  triumph,  and  make  difficulty  itself  become  part  of 
its  facility  and  joy. 

And  lastly,  Poetry  shapes  this  modulation  into  uniformity  for 
its  outline,  and  variety  for  its  parts,  because  it  thus  realizes  the 
last  idea  of  beauty  itself,  which  includes  the  charm  of  diversity 
within  the  flowing  round  of  habit  and  ease. 

Poetry  is  imaginative  passion.  The  quickest  and  subtlest 
test  of  the  possession  of  its  essence  is  in  expression ;  *the  variety 
of  things  to  be  expressed  shows  the  amount  of  its  resources ; 
and  the  continuity  of  the  song  completes  the  evidence  of  its 
strength  and  greatness.  He  who  has  thought,  feeling,  expres- 
sion, imagination,  action,  character,  and  continuity,  all  in  the 
largest  amount  and  highest  degree,  is  the  greatest  poet. 

Poetry  includes  whatsoever  of  painting  can  be  made  visible 
to  the  mind's  eye,  and  whatsoever  of  music  can  be  conveyed  by 
sound  and  proportion  without  singing  or  instrumentation.  But 
it  far  surpasses  those  divine  arts  in  suggestiveness,  range,  and 
intellectual  wealth ; — the  first,  in  expression  of  thought,  combi- 
nation of  images,  and  the  triumph  over  space  and  time ;  the 
second,  in  all  that  can  be  done  by  speech,  apart  from  the  tones 
and  modulations  of  pure  sound.  Painting  and  music,  however, 
include  all  those  portions  of  the  gift  of  poetry  that  can  be  ex- 
pressed and  heightened  by  the  visible  and  melodious.     Painting, 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ? 


in  a  certain  apparent  manner,  is  things  themselves ;  music,  in  a 
certain  audible  manner,  is  their  very  emotion  and  grace.  Mu- 
sic and  painting  are  proud  to  be  related  to  poetry,  and  poetry 
loves  and  is  proud  of  them. 

Poetry  begins  where  matter  of  fact  or  of  science  ceases  to  be 
merely  such,  and  to  exhibit  a  further  truth ;  that  is  to  say,  the 
connexion  it  has  with  the  world  of  emotion,  and  its  power  to 
produce  imaginative  pleasure.  Inquiring  of  a  gardener,  for  in- 
stance, what  flower  it  is  that  we  see  yonder,  he  answers,  "  a 
lily."  This  is  matter  of  fact.  The  botanist  pronounces  it  to 
be  of  the  order  of  "  Hexandria  Monogynia.^'  inis  is  matter  's 
of  science.  Ft  is  the  "  lady  "  of  the  garden,  says  Spenser ;  j 
and  here 'we  begin  to  have  a  pn^tipal  spnsp  of  its  faimesg^s  and  | 
grace.     It  is  \ 

The  plant  and  flower  of  light,  ( 

says  Ben  Jonson ;  and  poetry  then  shows  us  the  beauty  of  the 
flower  in  all  its  mystery  and  splendor. 

If  it  be  asked,  how  we  know  perceptions  like  these  to  be  true, 
the  answer  is,  by  the  fact  of  their  existence, — by  the  consent 
and  delight  of  poetic  readers.  And  as  feeling  is  the  earliest 
teacher,  and  perception  the  only  final  proof,  of  things  the  most 
demonstrable  by  science,  so  the  remotest  imaginations  of  the 
poets  may  often  be  found  to  have  the  closest  connexion  with 
matter  of  fact ;  perhaps  might  always  be  so,  if  the  subtlety  of 
our  perceptions  were  a  match  for  the  causes  of  them.  Con- 
sider this  image  of  Ben  Jonson's — of  a  lily  being  a  flower  of 
light.  Light,  undecomposed,  is  white  ;  and  as  the  lily  is  white, 
and  light  is  white,  and  whiteness  itself  is  nothing  hut  light,  the  two 
things,  so  far,  are  not  merely  similar,  but  identical.  A  poet  might 
add,  by  an  analogy  drawn  from  the  connexion  of  light  and 
color,  and  there  is  a  "  golden  dawn"  issuing  out  of  the  white 
lily,  in  the  rich  yellow  of  the  stame/is.  I  have  no  desire  to 
push  this  similarity  further  than  it  may  be  worth.  J^nough  has 
been  stated  to  show  that,  in  poetical  as  in  other  analogies,  "  the 
same  feet  of  Nature,"  as  Bacon  says,  may  be  seen  "  treading  in 
different  paths ;"  and  that  the  most  scornful,  that  is  to  say, 


AN  ANSWER  TO  THE   QUESTION 


dullest  disciple  of  fact,  should  be  cautious  how  he  betrays  the 
shallowness  of  his  philosophy  by  discerning  no  poetry  in  its 
depths. 

But  the  poet  is  far  from  dealing  only  with  these  subtle  and 
analogical  truths.  Truth  of  every  kind  belongs  to  him,  pro- 
vided it  can  bud  into  any  kind  of  beauty,  or  is  capable  of  being 
illustrated  and  impressed  by  the  poetic  faculty.  Nay,  the  sim- 
plest truth  is  often  so  beautiful  and  impressive  of  itself,  that  one 
of  the  greatest  proofs  of  his  genius  consists  in  his  leaving  it  to 
stand  alone,  illustrated  by  nothing  but  the  light  of  its  own  tears 
or  smiles,  its  own  wonder,  might,  or  playfulness.  Hence  the 
complete  effect  of  many  a  simple  passage  in  our  old  English 
ballads  and  romances,  and  of  the  passionate  sincerity  in  general 
of  the  greatest  early  poets,  such  as  Homer  and  Chaucer,  who 
flourished  before  the  existence  of  a  "  literary  world,"  and  were 
not  perplexed  by  a  heap  of  notions  and  opinions,  or  by  doubts 
how  emotion  ought  to  be  expressed.  The  greatest  of  their  suc- 
cessors never  write  equally  to  the  purpose,  except  when  they 
can  dismiss  everything  from  their  minds  but  the  like  simple 
truth.  In  the  beautiful  poem  of  "  Sir  Eger,  Sir  Graham,  and 
Sir  Gray-Steel"  (see  it  in  Ellis's  Specimens,  or  Laing's  Early 
Metrical  Tales),  a  knight  thinks  himself  disgraced  in  the  eyes 
of  his  mistress : 


Sir  Eger  said,  "  If  it  be  so, 
Then  wot  I  well  I  must  forego 
Love-liking,  and  manhood,  all  clean  !" 
The  water  rushed  out  of  his  sen  ! 

Sir  Gray-Steel  is  killed  : — 

Gray-Steel  into  his  death  thus  throws  (throes  ?) 
He  waiters  (welters — throws  himself  about)  and  the 
grass  up  draws  ; 

***** 

A  little  while  then  lay  he  still 
{Friends  that  him  saw,  liked  full  ill) 
And  hied  into  his  armor  bright. 

1 .,  J  abode  of  Chaucer's  Reve,  or  Steward,  in  the  Canterbury 
Tales,  is  painted  in  two  lines,  which  nobody  ever  wished 
longer : — 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ? 


His  wonning  (dwelling)  was  full  fair  upon  an  heath, 
With  greeny  trees  yshadowed  was  his  place. 

Every  one  knows  the  words  of  Lear,  "  most  matter-of-fact^ 
most  melancholy." 

Pray  do  not  mock  me  ; 
I  am  a  very  foolish  fond  old  man 
Fourscore  and  upwards : 

Not  an  hour  more,  nor  less  ;  and  to  deal  plainly 
I  fear  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 

It  is  thus,  by  exquisite  pertinence,  melody,  and  the  implied 
power  of  writing  with  exuberance,  if  need  be,  that  beauty  and 
truth  become  identical  in  poetry,  and  that  pleasure,  or  at  the 
very  worst,  a  balm  in  our  tears,  is  drawn  out  of  pain. 

It  is  a  great  and  rare  thing,  and  shows  a  lovely  imagination, 
when  the  poet  can  write  a  commentary,  as  it  were,  of  his  own, 
onf  such  sufficing  passages  of  nature,  and  be  thanked  for  the 
addition.  There  is  an  instance  of  this  kind  in  Warner,  an  old 
Elizabethan  poet,  than  which  I  know  nothing  sweeter  in  the 
world.  He  is  speaking  of  Fair  Rosamond,  and  of  a  blow  given 
her  by  Queen  Eleanor. 

With  that  she  dash'd  her  on  the  lips. 

So  dyed  double  red : 
Hard  was  the  heart  that  gave  the  blow. 

Soft  were  those  lips  that  bled. 

There  are  different  kinds  and  degrees  of  imagination,  some 
of  them  necessary  to  the  formation  of  every  true  poet,  and  all  of 
them  possessed  by  the  greatest.  Perhaps  they  may  be  enume- 
rated as  follows : — First,  that  which  presents  to  the  mind  any 
object  or  circumstance  in  e very-day  life  ;  as  when  we  imagine 
a  man  holding  a  sword,  or  looking  out  of  a  window  ; — Second, 
that  which  presents  r^l,  but  not  every-day  circumstances ;  as 
King  Alfred  tending  the  loaves,  or  Sir  Philip  Sidney  giving  up 
the  water  to  the  dying  soldier ; — Third,  that  which  combines 
character  and  events  directly  imitated  from  leal  life,  with  imita- 
tive realities  of  its  own  invention ;  as  the  probable  parts  of  the 
histories  of  Priam  and  Macbeth,  or  what  may  be  called  natural 


AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 


fiction  as  distinguished  from  supernatural ; — Fourth,  that  which 
conjures  up  things  and  events  not  to  be  found  in  nature  ;  as 
Homer's  gods,  and  Shakspeare's  witches,  enchanted  horses  and 
spears,  Ariosto's  hippogrifF,  &c. ; — Fifth,  that  which,  in  order  to 
illustrate  or  aggravate  one  image,  introduces  another ;  sometimes 
in  simile,  as  when  Homer  compares  Apollo  descending  ia  his 
wrath  at  noon-day  to  the  coming  of  night-time :  sometimes  in 
metaphor,  or  simile  comprised  in  a  word,  as  in  Milton's  "  motes 
that  people  the  sunbeams  ;"  sometimes  in  concentrating  into  a 
word  the  main  history  of  any  person  or  thing,  past  or  even 
future,  as  in  the  "starry  Galileo"  of  Byron,  and  that  ghastly 
foregone  conclusion  of  the  epithet  "  murdered"  applied  to  the 
yet  living  victim  in  Keats's  story  from  Boccaccio — 

So  the  two  brothers  and  their  murder' d  man 
Rode  towards  fair  Florence ; — 

sometimes  in  the  attribution  of  a  certain  representative  quality 
which  makes  one  circumstance  stand  for  others  ;  as  in  Milton's 
grey-fly  winding  its  "  sultry  horn,"  which  epithet  contains  the 
heat  of  a  summer's  day ; — Sixth,  that  which  reverses  this  pro- 
cess, and  makes  a  variety  of  circumstances  take  color  from  one, 
like  nature  seen  with  jaundiced  or  glad  eyes,  or  under  the  influ- 
ence of  storm  or  sunshine ;  as  when  in  Lycidas,  or  the  Greek 
pastoral  poets,  the  flowers  and  the  flocks  are  made  to  sympathize 
with  a  man's  death ;  or,  in  the  Italian  poet,  the  river  flowing  by 
the  sleeping  Angelica  seems  talking  of  love — 

Parea  che  1'  erba  le  fiorisse  intorno, 
E  d'  amor  ragionasse  quell  a  riva  !' — 

Orlando  Tnnamorato,  Canto  iii. 

or  in  the  voluptuous  homage  paid  to  the  sleeping  Imogen  by  the 
very  light  in  the  chamber  and  the  reaction  of  her  own  beauty 
upon  itself ;  or  in  the  "  witch  element"  of  the  tragedy  of  Mac- 
beth and  the  May-day  night  of  Faust ; — Seventh,  and  last,  that 
which  by  a  single  expression,  apparently  of  the  vaguest  kind, 
not  only  meets  but  surpasses  in  its  effect  the  extremest  force  of 
the  most  particular  description ;  as  in  that  exquisite  passage  of 


WHAT  IS  POETRY? 


Coleridge's  Christabel,  where  the  unsuspecting  object  of  the 
witch's  malignity  is  bidden  to  go  to  bed  : — 

Quoth  Christabel,  So  let  it  be  ! 
And  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she. 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress. 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness  ; — 

a  perfect  verse  surely,  both  for  feeling  and  music.  The  very 
smoothness  and  gentleness  of  the  limbs  is  in  the  series  of  the  let- 
ter Vs. 

I  am  aware  of  nothing  of  the  kind  surpassing  the  most  lovely 
inclusion  of  physical  beauty  in  moral,  neither  can  I  call  to  mind 
any  instances  of  the  imagination  that  turns  accompaniments  into 
accessories,  superior  to  those  I  have  alluded  to.  Of  the  class  of 
comparison,  one  of  the  most  touching  (many  a  tear  must  it  have 
drawn  from  parents  and  lovers)  is  in  a  stanza  which  has  been 
copied  into  the  "  Friar  of  Orders  Grey,"  out  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher : — 

Weep  no  more,  lady,  weep  no  more. 

Thy  sorrow  is  in  vain ; 
For  violets  pluck' d  the  sweetest  showers 
Will  ne'er  make  grow  again. 

And  Shakspeare  and  Milton  abound  in  the  very  grandest ;  such 
as  Antony's  likening  his  changing  fortunes  to  the  clcoid-rack ; 
Lear's  appeal  to  the  old  age  of  the  heavens  ;  Satan's  appearance 
in  the  horizon,  like  a  fleet  "  hanging  in  the  clouds  ;"  and  the 
comparisons  of  him  with  the  comet  and  the  eclipse.  Nor  un- 
worthy of  this  glorious  company,  for  its  extraordinary  combina- 
tion of  delicacy  and  vastness,  is  that  enchanting  one  of  Shelley's 
in  the  Adonais  : — 

Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-colored  glass. 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  eternity. 

I  multiply  these  particulars  in  order  to  impress  upon  the  reader's 
mind  the  great  importance  of  imagination  in  all  its  phases,  as  a 
constituent  part  of  the  highest  poetic  faculty. 

The  happiest  instance  I  remember  of  imaginative  metaphor 


AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 


is  Shakspeare's  moonlight  "  sleeping"  on  a  bank  ;  but  half  his 
poetry  may  be  said  to  be  made  up  of  it,  metaphor  indeed  being 
the  common  coin  of  discourse.  Of  imaginary  creatures,  none 
out  of  the  pale  of  mythology  and  the  East,  are  equal,  perhaps, 
in  point  of  invention,  to  Shakspeare's  Ariel  and  Caliban  ;  though 
poetry  may  grudge  to  prose  the  discovery  of  a  Winged  Woman, 
especially  such  as  she  has  been  described  by  her  inventor  in  the 
story  of  Peter  Wilkins  ;  and  in  point  of  treatment,  the  Mammon 
and  Jealousy  of  Spenser,  some  of  the  monsters  in  Dante,  particu- 
larly his  Nimrod,  his  interchangements  of  creatures  into  one 
another,  and  (if  I  am  not  presumptuous  in  anticipating  what  I 
think  will  be  the  verdict  of  posterity)  the  Witch  in  Coleridge's 
Christabel,  may  rank  even  with  the  creations  of  Shakspeare. 
It  may  be  doubted,  indeed,  whether  Shakspeare  had  bile  and 
nightmare  enough  in  him  to  have  thought  of  such  detestable  hor- 
rors as  those  of  the  interchanging  adversaries  (now  serpent,  now 
man),  or  even  of  the  huge,  half-blockish  enormity  of  Nimrod, — 
in  Scripture,  the  "  mighty  hunter"  and  builder  of  the  tower  of 
Babel, — in  Dante,  a  tower  of  a  man  in  his  own  person,  standing 
with  some  of  his  brother  giants  up  to  the  middle  in  a  pit  in  hell, 
blowing  a  horn  to  which  a  thunder-clap  is  a  whisper,  and  halloo- 
ing after  Dante  and  his  guide  in  the  jargon  of  the  lost  tongue  ! 
The  transformations  are  too  odious  to  quote  :  but  of  the  towering 
giant  we  cannot  refuse  ourselves  the  "  fearful  joy"  of  a  speci- 
men. It  was  twilight,  Dante  tells  us,  and  he  and  his  guide  Vir- 
gil were  silently  pacing  through  one  of  the  dreariest  regions  of 
hell,  when  the  sound  of  a  tremendous  horn  made  him  turn  all  his 
attention  to  the  spot  from  which  it  came.  He  there  discovered 
through  the  dusk,  what  seemed  to  be  the  towers  of  a  city. 
Those  are  no  towers,  said  his  guide  ;  they  are  giants,  standing 
up  to  the  middle  in  one  of  these  circular  pits. 

Come  quando  la  nibbia  si  dissipa, 

Lo  sguardo  a  poco  a  poco  raffigura 

Cio  che  cela  1'  vapor  che  1'  acre  stipa; 
Cosi  forando  V  aer  grossa  e  scura 

Piu  e  piu  appressando  in  ver  la  sponda, 

Fugg6mi  errore,  e  giugnemi  paura : 
Perocche  come  in  su  la  cerchia  tonda 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ? 


Montereggion  di  torri  si  corona, 

Cosi  la  proda  che  '1  pozzo  circonda 
Torreggiavan  di  mezza  la  persona 

Gli  orribili  giganti,  cui  minaccia 

Giove  del  cielo  ancora,  quando  tuona : 
Ed  io  scorgeva  gia'  d'alcun  la  faccia, 

Le  spalle  e  '1  petto,  e  del  ventre  gran  parte, 

E  per  le  coste  giu  ambo  le  braccia. 

*  *  4c  * 

La  faccia  sua  mi  parea  lunga  e  grossa 

Come  la  pina  di  san  Pietro  a  Roma  : 

E  a  sua  proporzion  eran  I'altr*  ossa. 
«  *  *  * 

Kafel  mai  amech  zabi  almi 

Cominci6  a  gridar  la  fiera  bocca, 
Cui  non  si  convenien  piu  dolci  salmi. 

E  '1  duca  mio  ver  lui :  anima  sciocca, 
Tienti  col  corno,  e  con  quel  ti  disfoga, 
Quand'  ira  o  altra  passion  ti  tocca. 

Cercati  al  collo,  e  troverai  la  soga 
Che  '1  tien  legato,  o  anima  confusa, 
E  vedi  lui  che  '1  gran  petto  ti  doga. 

Poi  disse  a  me  :  egli  stesso  s'  accusa  : 
Questi  e  Nembrotto,  per  lo  cui  mal  coto 
Pure  un  linguaggio  nel  mondo  non  s'  usa. 

Lasciamlo  stare,  e  non  parliamo  a  veto  : 
Che  cosi  e  a  lui  ciascun  linguaggio, 
Come  '1  suo  ad  altrui  ch'  a  nuUo  e  noto. 

Inferno,  Canto  xxxi.,  ver.  34. 

I  look'd  again  ;  and  as  the  eye  makes  out, 
By  little  and  little,  what  the  mist  conceal'd 
In  which,  till  clearing  up,  the  sky  was  steep'd ; 
So,  looming  through  the  gross  and  darksome  air. 
As  we  drew  nigh,  those  mighty  bulks  grew  plain. 
And  error  quitted  me,  and  terror  join'd  : 
For  in  like  manner  as  all  round  its  height 
Montereggione  crowns  itself  with  towers, 
So  tower'd  above  the  circuit  of  that  pit. 
Though  but  half  out  of  it,  and  half  within. 
The  horrible  giants  that  fought  Jove,  and  still 
Are  threaten'd  when  he  thunders.     As  we  near'd 
The  foremost,  I  discern'd  his  mighty  face. 
His  shoulders,  breast,  and  more  than  half  his  trunk. 
With  both  the  arms  down  hanging  by  the  sides. 
His  face  appear'd  to  me,  in  length  and  breadth. 


10  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

Huge  as  St.  Peter's  pinnacle  at  Rome, 

And  of  a  like  proportion  all  his  bones. 

He  open'd,  as  he  went,  his  dreadful  mouth. 

Fit  for  no  sweeter  psalmSdy  ;  and  shouted 

After  us,  in  the  words  of  some  strange  tongue, 

Rafel  ma-e3  amech  zabce  almee  ! — 

"Dull  wretch  !"  my  leader  cried,  "keep  to  thine  born. 

And  so  vent  better  whatsoever  rage 

Or  other  passion  stuff  thee.     Feel  thy  throat 

And  find  the  chain  upon  thee,  thou  confusion ! 

Lo  !  what  a  hoop  is  clench'd  about  thy  gorge." 

Then  turning  to  myself,  he  said,  "  His  howl 

Is  its  own  mockery.     This  is  Nimrod,  he 

Through  whose  ill  thought  it  was  that  humankind 

Were  tongue-confounded.     Pass  him,  and  say  naught : 

For  as  he  speaketh  language  known  of  none. 

So  none  can  speak  save  jargon  to  himself." 

Assuredly  it  could  not  have  been  easy  to  find  a  fiction  so  un- 
couthly  terrible  as  this  in  the  hypochondria  of  Hamlet.  Even 
his  father  had  evidently  seen  no  such  ghost  in  the  other  world. 
All  his  phantoms  were  in  the  world  he  had  left.  Timon,  Lear, 
Richard,  Brutus,  Prospero,  Macbeth  himself,  none  of  Shaks- 
peare's  men  had,  in  fact,  any  thought  but  of  the  earth  they 
lived  on,  whatever  supernatural  fancy  crossed  them.  The 
thing  fancied  was  still  a  thing  of  this  world,  "  in  its  habit  as  it 
lived,"  or  no  remoter  acquaintance  than  a  witch  or  a  fairy.  Its 
lowest  depths  (unless  Dante  suggested  them)  were  the  cellars 
under  the  stage.  Caliban  himself  is  a  cross-breed  between  a 
witch  and  a  clown.  No  offence  to  Shakspeare  ;  who  was  not 
bound  to  be  the  greatest  of  healthy  poets,  and  to  have  every 
morbid  inspiration  besides.  What  he  might  have  done,  had  he 
set  his  wits  to  compete  with  Dante,  I  know  not :  all  I  know  is, 
that  in  the  infernal  line  he  did  nothing  like  him  ;  and  it  is  not 
to  be  wished  he  had.  It  is  far  better  that,  as  a  higher,  more 
universal,  and  more  beneficent  variety  of  the  genus  Poet,  he 
should  have  been  the  happier  man  he  was,  and  left  us  the  plump 
cheeks  on  his  monument,  instead  of  the  carking  visage  of  the 
great,  but  over-serious,  and  comparatively  one-sided  Florentine. 
Even  the  imagination  of  Spenser,  whom  we  take  to  have  been 
a  "  nervous  gentleman"  compared  with  Shakspeare,  was  visited 


WHAT  IS  POETRV?  U 


with  no  such  dreams  as  Dante.  Or,  if  it  was,  he  did  not  choose 
to  make  himself  thinner  (as  Dante  says  he  did)  with  dwelling 
upon  them.  He  had  twenty  visions  of  nymphs  and  bowers,  to 
one  of  the  mud  of  Tartarus.  Chaucer,  for  all  he  was  "  a  man 
of  this  world  "  as  well  as  the  poets'  world,  and  as  great,  per- 
haps a  greater  enemy  of  oppression  than  Dante,  besides  being 
one  of  the  profoundest  masters  of  pathos  that  ever  lived,  had 
not  the  heart  to  conclude  the  story  of  the  famished  father  and 
his  children,  as  finished  by  the  inexorable  anti-Pisan.  But 
enough  of  Dante  in  this  place.  Hobbes,  in  order  to  daunt  the 
reader  from  objecting  to  his  friend  Davenant's  want  of  invention, 
says  of  these  fabulous  creations  in  general,  in  his  letter  pre- 
fixed to  the  poem  of  Gondibert,  that  "  impenetrable  armors,  en- 
chanted castles,  invulnerable  bodies,  iron  men,  flying  horses, 
and  a  thousand  other  such  things,  are  easily  feigned  by  them 
that  dare."  These  are  girds  at  Spenser  and  Ariosto.  But, 
with  leave  of  Hobbes  (who  translated  Homer  as  if  on  purpose 
to  show  what  execrable  verses  could  be  written  by  a  philoso- 
pher), enchanted  castles  and  flying  horses  are  not  easily  feigned, 
as  Ariosto  and  Spenser  feigned  them  ;  and  that  just  makes  all 
the  difference.  For  proof,  see  the  accounts  of  Spenser's  en- 
chanted castle  in  Book  the  Third,  Canto  Twelfth,  of  the  Fairy 
Queen  ;  and  let  the  reader  of  Italian  open  the  Orlando  Furioso 
at  its  first  introduction  of  the  HippogrifF  (Canto  iii.,  st.  4),  where 
Bradamante,  coming  to  an  inn,  hears  a  great  noise,  and  sees  all 
the  people  looking  up  at  something  in  the  air  ;  upon  which, 
looking  up  herself,  she  sees  a  knight  in  shining  armor  riding 
towards  the  sunset  upon  a  creature  with  variegated  wings,  and 
then  dipping  and  disappearing  among  the  hills.  Chaucer's  steed 
of  brass,  that  was 

So  horsly  and  so  quick  of  eye, 

is  copied  from  trie  life.  You  might  pat  him  and  feel  his  brazen 
muscles.  Hobbes,  in  objecting  to  what  he  thought  childish^^ 
made  ^childish  mistake.  His  criticism  is  just  such  as  a  boy 
SrigfiTpIque  himself  upon,  who  was  educated  on  mechanical 
orinciples,  and  thought  he  had  outgrown  his  Goody  Two-shoes. 


12  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 


With  a  wonderful  dimness  of  discernment  in  poetic  matters, 
considering  his  acuteness  in  others,  he  fancies  he  has  settled  the 
question  by  pronouncing  such  creations  "  impossible  !"  To  the 
brazier  they  are  impossible,  no  doubt ;  but  not  to  the  poet, 
'^hpjr  pnss^l^jHty,  j^f  the  poct  wills  it,  is  to  be  conceded  ;  the 
problem  is,  the  creature  being  ^iven,  how  to  square  its  actions 
with  probability^  according  to  the  nature  assumed  of  it.^  Hobbes 
did  not  see,  that  the  skill  and  beauty  of  these  fictions  lay  in 
bringing  them  within  those  very  regionsof  truth  and  likelihood 
in  which  fi^thought  they  could  not  exist.  Hence  the  serpent 
Python  of  Chaucer, 

Sleeving  against  the  sun  upon  a  day, 

when  Apollo  slew  him.  Hence  the  chariot-drawing  dolphins  of 
Spenser,  softly  swimming  along  the  shore  lest  they  should  hurt 
themselves  against  the  stones  and  gravel.  Hence  Shakspeare's 
Ariel,  living  under  blossoms,  and  riding  at  evening  on  the  bat ; 
and  his  domestic  namesake  in  the  "Rape  of  the  Lock"  (the 
imagination  of  the  drawing-room)  saving  a  lady's  petticoat  from 
the  coffee  with  his  plumes,  and  directing  atoms  of  snuff  into  a 
coxcomb's  nose.  In  the  "  Orlando  Furioso"  (Canto  xv.,  st. 
65)  is  a  wild  story  of  a  cannibal  necromancer,  who  laughs  at 
being  cut  to  pieces,  coming  together  again  like  quicksilver,  and 
picking  up  his  head  when  it  is  cut  off,  sometimes  by  the  hair, 
sometimes  by  the  nose  !  This,  which  would^  be  purely  chHdish 
and  ridiculous  in  the  hands  of  an  inferior  poet,  becomes  inter- 
esting,  nay  grand,  in  Ariosto^s,  from  the  beajities  of  his  style, 
and  its  conditionajtruth  to_^  nature^  The  monster  has  a  fated 
hair  on  his  head, — a  single  hair, — which  must  be  taken  from  it 
before  he  can  be  killed.  Decapitation  itself  is  of  no  consequence, 
without  that  proviso.  The  Paladin  Astolfo,  who  has  fought  this 
phenomenon  on  horseback,  and  succeeded  in  getting  the  head 
and  galloping  off  with  it,  is  therefore  still  at  a  loss  what  to  be 
at.  How  is  he  to  discover  such  a  needle  in  such  a  bottle  of 
hay  ?  The  trunk  is  spurring  after  him  to  recover  it,  and  he 
seeks  for  some  evidence  of  the  hair  in  vain.  At  length  he  be- 
thinks himself  of  scalping  the  head.     He  does  so-;  and  the  mo- 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  13 


ment  the  operation  arrives  at  the  place  of  the  hair,  the  face  of 
the  head  becomes  pale,  the  eyes  turn  in  their  sockets,  and  the  life- 
less pursuer  tumbles  from  his  horse. 

Si  fece  il  viso  allor  pallido  e  brutto, 
Travolse  gli  occhi,  e  dimostro  a  '1  occaso 
Per  manifesti  segni  esser  condutto. 
E  '1  busto  che  seguia  troncato  al  coUo, 
Di  sella  cadde,  e  die  1'  ultimo  crollo 

Then  grew  the  visage  pale,  and  deadly. wet; 
The  eyes  turned  in  their  sockets,  drearily  ; 
And  all  things  show'd  the  villain's  sun  was  set. 
His  trunk  that  was  in  chase,  fell  from  its  horse, 
And  giving  the  last  shudder,  was  a  corse. 

It  is^  thus^  and  thus  only,  by  making  Nature  his  companion^ 
wherever  he  goes,  even  in  the  most  supernatural  region,  that  the 
poet,  in  the  words  of  a  very  instructive  phrase,  takes  the  worl4 
along'  wittuhim-*  It  is  true,  he  must  not  (as  the  Platonists  would 
say)  humanize  weakly  or  mistakenly  in  that  region ;  otherwise 
he  runs  the  chance  of  forgetting  to  be  true  to  the  supernatural 
itself,  and  so  betraying  a  want  of  imagination  from  that  quar- 
ter. His  nymphs  will  have  no  taste  of  their  woods  and  waters ; 
his  gods  and  goddesses  be  only  so  many  fair  or  frowning  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  such  as  we  see  in  ordinary  paintings ;  he  will 
be  in  no  danger  of  having  his  angels  likened  to  a  sort  of  wild- 
fowl, as  Rembrandt  has  made  them  in  his  Jacob's  Dream.  His 
Bacchus's  will  never  remind  us,  like  Titian's,  of  the  force  and 
fury,  as  well  as  of  the  graces,  of  wine.  His  Jupiter  will  reduce 
no  females  to  ashes ;  his  fairies  be  nothing  fantastical ;  his 
gnomes  not  "  of  the  earth,  earthy."  And  this  again  will  be 
wanting  to  Nature  ;  for  it  will  be  wanting  to  the  supernatural, 
as  Nature  would  have  made  it,  working  in  a  supernatural  direc- 
tion. Nevertheless,  the  poet,  even  for  imagination's  sake,  must 
not  become  a  bigot  to  imaginative  truth,  dragging  it  down  into 
the  region  of  the  mechanical  and  the  limited,  and  losing  si^ht  of 
it^  paramount  privilege^  which  is  to  make  beauty,  in  a  human 
sense,  the  lady  and  queen  of  the  uni^^arsft.  He  would  gain  -^  ' 
nothing  by  making  his  ocean-nymphs  mere  fishy  creatures,  upon 


14         AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

the   plea  that  such  only  could  live  in  the  water:  his  wood- 
nymphs  with  faces  of  knotted  oak ;  his  angels  without  breath 
and  song,  because  no  lungs  could  exist  between  the  earth's 
atmosphere  and  the  empyrean.     The  Grecian  tendency  in  this 
respect  is  safer  than  the  Gothic  ;  nay,  more  imaginative  ;  for  it 
enables  us  to  imagine  beyond  imagination,  and  to  bring  all  things 
healthily  round  to  their  only  present  final  ground  of  sympathy 
— the  human.     When  we  go  to  heaven,  we  may  idealize  in  a 
superhuman  mode,  and  have  altogether  different  notions  of  the 
beautiful ;  but  till  then,  we  must  be  content  with  the  loveliest 
capabilities"  of  earth.     The  sea-nymphs  of  Greece  were  still 
beautiful  women,  though  they  lived  in  the  water.    The  gills  and 
fins  of  the  ocean's  natural  inhabitants  were  confined  to  their 
lowest  semi-human  attendants ;  or  if  Triton  himself  was   not 
quite  human,  it  was  because  he  represented  the  fiercer  part  of 
the  vitality  of  the  seas,  as  they  did  the  fairer. 
r  ~  To  conclude  this  part  of  my  subject,  I  will  quote  from  the 
I   greatest  of  all  narrative  writers  two  passages ; — one  exemplifying  - 
the  imagination  which  brings  supernatural  thinp;s  to  be^r  on 
earthly,  without  confounding  them ;  the  other,  that  which_paiDls^ 
events  and  circumstances  alter  real  life.     The  first  is  where 
Achilles,  who  has  long  absented  himself  from  the  conflict  be- 
tween his  countrymen  and  the  Trojans,  has  had  a  message  from 
heaven,  bidding  him  re-appear  in  the  enemy's  sight,  standing 
outside  the  camp-wall  upon  the  trench,  but  doing  nothing  more ; 
that  is  to  say,  taking  no  part  in  the  fight.     He  is  simply  to  be 
seen.     The  two  armies  down  by  the  sea-side  are  contending 
which  shall  possess  the  body  of  Patroclus ;   and  the  mere  sight 
of  the  dreadful  Grecian  chief — supernaturally  indeed  impressed 
upon  them,  in  order  that  nothing  may  be  wanting  to  the  full 
effect  of  his  courage  and  conduct  upon  courageous  men — is  to 
determine  the  question.     We  are  to  imagine  a  slope  of  ground 
towards  the  sea,  in  order  to  elevate  the  trench ;  the  camp  is 
solitary  ;  the  battle  ("a  dreadful  roar  of  men,"  as  Homer  calls 
it)  is  raging  on  the  sea-shore ;  and  the  goddess  Iris  has  just 
delivered  her  message,  and  disappeared. 

Avrap  A;\;iXX£Ws  oyp-o  Aa  ^tXoj*  ajifi  6'  A-Qrivn 
Qjxoig  t<p6inoiai  /?aX'  aiyiSa  Qvaaavotuoav' 


WHAT  IS  POETRY?  16 


A/i^t  6t  hi  Kt(pa\r]  ve((>oi  earetpc  fia  Otaoiv 
XjOyoTfyv,  CK  6'  avrov  iaie  (pXoya  naitipavouiTM, 
'i2j  J'  brt  Karrvos  icjv  e^  atrreos  aiQtp'  UriTat 
TijXoSev  ck  vr](Tov,  rnv  Snioi  afjKpifiax^ovTai, 
'OiTC  iravnyitpioi  orvycpw  Kpivovrai  Aprji 
A.(TT£os  CK  <T(peT£pov'  afjia  S'  ?7£Xta)  KaraSwri 
Tlvpaoi  Ti  (p'KEycdovalp  t-nrtrpi^oi,  vipoae  J'  avyTj 
Viyvcrai  aiacrovaa,  ■trtpiKTioveaaiv  iSccrOat, 
At  Kcv  rcjs  crvv  vrjvaiv  apin  aXKrripes  iKcovrai' 
'Sis  air'  A;(;tXX>70s  K£(pa\rii  o-cXaj  aiOep'  iKavev, 

Srr;  S'  etrt  Tii<ppov  lojv  airo  ret^eos'  ov6'  es  Avajovj 
MicrycTO'  urirpos  yap  rrVKivr}v  winder'  cfCTjirjv. 
Ei/0a  oraj  rjva'  airuTcpOe  Se  IlaWas  A-Onvrj 
^Bcy^ar'  arap  Tpcjctrffiv  cv  atnrtTOv  wptre  Kvdoiftov 
'i2s  S'  hr  api^r/Xri  (^oivn,  hrc  t   ta^t  aa\niy^ 
Aarrv  iztpiTrXoficvuiv  Sritwv  viro  Ovfiopaicrreuiv' 
'Qf  TOT   api^nM  (po>vi  ytver'  A.taKiSao, 
'Oi  6'  wf  ovv  atov  oira  j^^n^Ktov  A-iaKtSao^ 
Tlaaiv  opivQri  Qvfioi'  arap  KaWtTpi^eg  'nnroi 
A^  o^jo  TpoTTCov'  otraovTO  yap  aXyea  Qvnoi, 
'^vio'^oi  6'  eKTr\riyev,  eirei  i6ov  aKajiarov  irvp 
Aeivov  vTTcp  KE^aXrjj  ncyaOvfjiov  TlnXeicovos 
AaiojjLevov'  to  6s  Sau  Qea  yXavKco-ms  A.Orivri, 
Tptj  ^lev  VTTcp  Ta^ppov  fteyaX  la^e  6tog  A;^iAX£Uf, 
Tpti  Se  KVKTjdriaav  Tpcoes,  kXcitoi  t'  eiriKovpoi. 
Ev0a  Se  Kai  tot  o\ovto  SvioSuca  (j>wtks  apiaroi 
A-ufi  <r(pots  oj(etaai-  kui  eyxtaiv. 

Iliad,  Lib.  xviii.,  v.  303. 

But  up  Achilles  rose,  the  lov'd  of  heaven ; 

And  Pallas  on  his  mighty  shoulders  cast 

The  shield  of  Jove ;  and  round  about  his  head 

She  put  the  glory  of  a  golden  mist, 

From  w^hich  there  burnt  a  fiery-flaming  light. 

And  as,  when  smoke  goes  heaven-ward  from  a  town. 

In  some  far  island  which  its  foes  besiege, 

Who  all  day  long  with  dreadful  martialness 

Have  pour'd  from  their  own  town ;  soon  as  the  sun 

Has  set,  thick  lifted  fires  are  visible. 

Which,  rushing  upward,  make  a  light  in  the  sky. 

And  let  the  neighbors  know,  who  may  perhaps 

Bring  help  across  the  sea ;  so  from  the  head 

Of  great  Achilles  went  up  an  effulgence. 

Upon  the  trench  he  stood,  without  the  wall. 
But  mix'd  not  with  the  Greeks,  for  he  rever'd 


16  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

His  mother's  word ;  and  so,  thus  standing  there, 

He  shouted  ;  and  Minerva,  to  his  shout, 

Added  a  dreadful  cry  ;  and  there  arose 

Among  the  Trojans  an  unspeakable  tumult. 

And  as  the  clear  voiae  of  a  trumpet,  blown 

Against  a  town  by  spirit-withering  foes. 

So  sprang  the  clear  voice  of  ^acides. 

And  when  they  heard  the  brazen  cry,  their  hearts 

All  leap'd  within  them  ;  and  the  proud-maned  horses 

Ran  with  the  chariots  round,  for  they  foresaw 

Calamity ;  and  the  charioteers  were  smitten, 

When  they  beheld  the  ever-active  fire 

Upon  the  dreadiul  head  of  the  great-minded  one 

Burning ;  for  bright-eyed  Pallas  made  it  burn. 

Thrice  o'er  the  trench  divine  Achilles  shouted ; 

An*  thrice  the  Trojans  and  their  great  allies 

Roll'd  back ;  and  twelve  of  all  their  noblest  men 

Then  perished,  crush'd  by  their  own  arms  and  chariots. 

Of  course  there  is  no  further  question  about  the  body  of  Patro- 
clus.  It  is  drawn  out  of  the  press,  and  received  by  the  awful 
hero  with  tears. 

The  other  passage  is  where  Priam,  kneeling  before  Achilles, 
and  imploring  him  to  give  up  the  dead  body  of  Hector,  reminds 
him  of  his  own  father  ;  who,  whatever  (says  the  poor  old  king) 
may  be  his  troubles  with  his  enemies,  has  the  blessing  of  know- 
ing that  his  son  is  still  alive,  and  may  daily  hope  to  see  him 
return.  Achilles,  in  accordance  with  the  strength  and  noble 
honesty  of  the  passions  in  those  times,  weeps  aloud  himself  at 
this  appeal,  feeling,  says  Homer,  "  desire"  for  his  father  in  his 
very  "  limbs."  He  joins  in  grief  with  the  venerable  sufferer, 
and  can  no  longer  withstand  the  look  of  "  his  great  head  and 
his  grey  chin.''  Observe  the  exquisite  introduction  of  this  last 
word.  It  paints  the  touching  fact  of  the  chin's  being  implor- 
ingly thrown  upward  by  the  kneeling  old  man,  and  the  very 
motion  of  his  beard  as  he  speaks. 

'Gff  apa  (j)0}VT]<ras  aiTEPri  npog  jxaKpov  OXv/zTroy 
'Kpfieias'  Upiaixos  6'  e^  lirrrcjv  aXro  j^^afia^e, 
iSaiov  6s  Kar  avdi  Xnrev'  b  Sc  ftifivev  tpvKUiv 
'Ithtovj  fijxiovovs  Tt'  ytpoiv  6'  iQvg  kuv  oikov, 
T»j  ^'  Ax^^svs  l(e(TK£,  Alt  cpiXos'  ci>  6t  fiiv  avToy 
*£iVf>*  iTopot  6'  aTtavsvds  KaQeiaro'  roi  St  6v'  otw, 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  17 


'Hpwf  AvTOitcSiov  Tc  Kai  AXiri^o;,  o^oi  Af»70f, 
Hoiiryvov  irapeovre'  veov  6'  aireXriycv  tJwJ/jj 
E<T6(t)i>  xai  irivcov,  cri  Kai  vapcKciro  rpane^a. 
Tovg  J'  e\ad'  eiac\d(op  Ilpia/ios  ftcyai,  ay^i  6'  apa  errag 
^cperiv  A;^tXX»of  Xa/?£  y^^'"'^''''^}  **"  '^^"^  X^'P"^^ 
Aeivas,  avipo(povovs,  al  ol  iroXcag  ktovov  vtaj, 
'Qs  6'  hrav  av6p  arrj  itvkivt}  Xa/5;j,  bar'  evt  varpil 
^ujra  KaTCucrcivas,  aWtave^iKcro  Sqfiov, 
A.vSpos  cs  a<pvtiov,  duft/Sos  6'  ej(^£i  tiaopooivraf, 
'Qf  A;^iXeus  QaiiPriatv,  iSuiv  Upiaftov  dcoeiSea' 
HafiPijaav  6c  xai  aWoi,  £j  aXX>;Xov$  6c  i6ovto,  ^ 

Toy  Kui  Xtaaoncpos  Ilfxa/io;  irpug  fivOov  ceiircp'  f^ 

Mvqcrat  irarpos  acio,  dcoig  cvteiKcX  A;^tXX£V, 
T»jXt/cov,  bKTTrcp  eywvj  oXoo)  cirt  yrjpaos  ov6(o. 
Kat  [icv  TTov  KCivov  ncptvaitrai  a^fii  covtcs 
Tcipovff',  ov6c  Tts  CffTiv  apt]v  Kat  \oiyov  ajivvat' 
AXX'  hroi  Kcivos  yc,  acBcv  ^oyovros  okovoiv, 
Taipei  r'  ev  0w/i&),  eiri  t  c\TtCTai  riixara  iravra 
OxpcffOai  (pt\ov  viov  aiTo  TipoitjOcv  lovra' 
A-vrap  cyoi  iiavaiTOTyLOi,  crrci  tckov  vias  api<rro9( 
TpotJj  ev  evpcirj,  tuv  6'  ovriva  ^Tfm  \c\ci(jtdat. 
TlcvrrfKOvra  jxoi  ijcap,  ot^  ri\vdovvics  A^ajwv* 
EvpeaKai6eKa  ficp  jjloi  i»jj  ck  pti6vos  rjaav^ 
Tovi  6'  aWovs  fiot  ZTiKTOP  cvi  ficyapoiari  yvvaiKes. 
Twv  [icp  noWoiv  Oovpoi  A.prii  viro  yovpar'  e\v<rsi^ 
'Sis  6c  HOI  otos  er}p^  ctpvro  6c  airrv  Kai  avrovf, 
Toy  cvnpcjTtp  KTCipag,  afivpojicpov  rrcpi  narptis^ 
'Ejcrojja"  Tov  pvv  cipc^'  hapcj  prias  A^^aiav, 
Aixro/icvo;  irapa  acio,  <pcp()>  S'  ancpciaC  anoiva. 
AXX'  ai6cio  deovs,  A;^iX£t),  avTov  t'  cXeriaoVy 
^lyriaafiepos  <rov  narpoi'  tyw  J'  eXeeti/orlpof  7r<p, 
EtX>7i/  S ,  di  oviroi  r«ff  tTri^OoviOi  0poTOS  aWos, 
Aj'6pos  zaH6o(povoio  iroTi  aTOjia  ;^£'p'  opeystrdai. 

'Gf  faTO'  TO)  6'  apa  narpos  if'  liicpop  (opa  yooio. 
Axpajttvos  6'  apa  %c«(»of,  airuxraro  r]Ka  ytpopra. 
To)  66  jxvria-afisvo},  h  fiev  'KKTopog  av6po(popoio, 
KXai'  a6iva^  -irponapotOe  no6(t)v  A%tXjjoj  tXvaOtii' 
A-vrap  A;^tXXcuj  K^aup  cov  -narep',  aWort  6'  avrt 
JlarpoK^ov'  TOiv  66  arovajfri  Kara  6<>}naT*  opuypti. 
A.vr»p  enei  pa  yooio  T6Tapn6To  6ios  A;^tXX«t>f, 
Ka«  6(  OTTO  irpani6o}p  r]\6'  in6pos  n6*  airo  ywtwv, 
K.VTIK   ano  Opovov  cjpro,  yepopra  6c  ;^ejpo5  apicTJf, 
OiKTSipuv  no'X.tov  TS  xapr],  noXiop  t<  ysveiop. 

Iliad,  Lib.  zxiv.,  t.  468. 


18  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

So  saying,  Mercury  vanished  up  to  heaven : 

And  Priam  then  alighted  from  his  chariot, 

Leaving  Tdneus  w^ith  it,  who  remain'd 

Holding  the  mules  and  horses ;  and  the  old  man 

Went  straight  in-doors,  where  the  belov'd  of  Jove 

Achilles  saf^  a*id  found  him.     In  the  room 

Were  others,  but  apart ;  and  two  alone, 

The  hero  Automedon,  and  Alcimus, 

A  branch  of  Mars,  stood  by  him.     They  had  been 

At  meals,  and  had  not  yet  removed  the  board. 

Great  Priam  came,  without  their  seeing  him, 

And  kneeling  down,  he  clasp'd  Achilles'  knees. 

And  kiss'd  those  terrible,  homicidal  hands, 

Which  had  deprived  him  of  so  many  sons. 

And  as  a  man  who  is  press'd  heavily 

For  having  slain  another,  flies  away 

To  foreign  lands,  and  comes  into  the  house 

Of  some  great  man,  and  is  beheld  with  wonder. 

So  did  Achilles  wonder  to  see  Priam  ; 

And  the  rest  wonder'd,  looking  at  each  other. 

But  Priam,  praying  to  him,  spoke  these  words : — 

"  God-like  Achilles,  think  of  thine  own  father ! 

To  the  same  age  have  we  both  come,  the  same 

Weak  pass ;  and  though  the  neighboring  chiefs  may  vet 

Him  also,  and  his  borders  find  no  help. 

Yet  when  he  hears  that  thou  art  still  alive. 

He  gladdens  inwardly,  and  daily  hopes 

To  see  his  dear  son  coming  back  from  Troy, 

But  I,  bereav'd  old  Priam  !  I  had  once 

Brave  sons  in  Troy,  and  now  I  cannot  say 

That  one  is  left  me.     Fifty  children  had  I, 

When  the  Greeks  came ;  nineteen  were  of  one  womb ; 

The  rest  my  women  bore  me  in  my  house. 

The  knees  of  many  of  these  fierce  Mars  has  loosen'd ; 

And  he  who  had  no  peer,  Troy's  prop  and  theirs. 

Him  hast  thou  kill'd  now,  fighting  for  his  country. 

Hector ;  and  for  his  sake  am  I  come  here 

To  ransom  him,  bringing  a  countless  ransom. 

But  thou,  Achilles,  fear  the  gods,  and  think 

Of  thine  own  father,  and  have  mercy  on  me ; 

For  I  am  much  more  wretched,  and  have  borne 

What  never  mortal  bore,  I  think,  on  earth. 

To  lift  unto  my  lips  the  hand  of  him 

Wko  slew  my  boys." 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  19 


He  ceased ;  and  there  arose 
Sharp  longing  in  Achilles  for  his  father; 
And  taking  Priam  by  the  hand,  he  gently 
Put  him  away ;  for  both  shed  tears  to  think 
Of  other  times  ;  the  one,  most  bitter  ones 
For  Hector,  and  with  wilful  wretchedness 
Lay  right  before  Achilles :  and  the  other. 
For  his  own  father  now,  and  now  his  friend  ; 
And  the  whole  house  might,hear  them  as  they  moan'd- 
But  when  divine  Achilles  had  refresh'd 
*  His  soul  with  tears,  and  sharp  desire  had  left 

His  heart  and  limbs,  he  got  up  from  his  throne. 
And  rais'd  the  old  man  by  the  hand,  and  took 
Pity  on  his  grey  head  and  his  grey  chin. 

O  lovely  and  immortal  privilege  of  genius  !  that  can  stretch 
its  hand  out  of  the  wastes  of  time,  thousands  of  years  back, 
and  touch  our  eyelids  with  tears.  In  these  passages  there  is  not 
a  word  which  a  man  of  the  most  matter-of-fact  understanding--^,^ 
might  not  have  written,  if  he  had  thought  of  it.  But  in  poetry/  ^  » 
feeling  and  imagination  are  necessaxyi^to  the  perceptjonl^nd 
presentation  everroTmattersor'^t  They,  and  they  only^see 
what  is4)roper  to  be  told,  and^hat  to  b£^^kept~back ;  what  is 
pertinent,  affecting,  and  essential.^    Withoutjeeling^here  is  a  A 

ithout  imaginationTthere  is  /  ( 


I  [want  of  delicacyandjdistinctJQ]: 
notrue~^^3ime^7^Jjipoets,  even  good  of  their  kind,  but 
without  a  genius  for  narration,  the  action  would  have  been  enT 
cumbered  or  diverted  with  ingenious  mistakes.  The  over-con- 
templative  would  have  given  us  too  jnanyj'emarks ;  the  over- 
lyrical,  a  style  too  much  carried  away  ;  the  over-fanciful,  con- 
ceits and  too  many  similes ;  the  unimaginative,  the  facts  without 
the  feeling,  and  not  even  those.  We  should  have  been  told 
nothing  of  the  "  grey  chin,"  of  the  house  hearing  them  as  they 
moaned,  or  of  Achilles  gently  putting  the  old  man  aside ;  much 
less  of  that  yearning  for  his  father,  which  made  the  hero  trem- 
ble in  every  limb.  Writgrs  without  ^le^greatest  passion  and 
pow^da^Qt feeHnihisja^^y^jiorjj^^  o^^xpressing  the 

feefingj  though  there  is  enough  sensibility  and  imagination  all 
over  the  world  to  enable  mankind  to  be  moved  by  it,  when  the 
poet  strikes  his  truth  into  their  hearts. 

The  reverse  of  imagination  Js^xhibitedjn_pure  absence  of 


20  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

ideas,  in  commonplaces,  and,  above  all,  in  conventional  meta. 
phor,  orsuch  images  and  their^ihrasfiqlogj^s  have  become  the 
common  property  of  discpurse^and^  writing.  Addison's  Cato  is 
full  of  them. 

Passion  unpitied  and  successless  love 
Plant  daggers  in  my  breast. 

I've  sounded  my  Numidians,  man  by  man, 
And  find  them  ripe  for  a  revolt. 

The  virtuous  Marcia  towers  above  her  sex.  * 

Of  the  same  kind  is  his  "  courting  the  yoke" — "  distracting  my 
very  heart" — "calling  up  all"  one's  "  father"  in  one's  soul — 
"working  every  nerve" — "copying  a  bright  example;"  in 
short,  the  whole  play,  relieved  now  and  then  with  a  smart  sen- 
tence or  turn  of  words.  The  following  is  a  pregnant  example 
of  plagiarism  and  weak  writing.  It  is  from  another  tragedy  of 
Addison's  time, — the  Mariamne  of  Fenton  : — 

Mariamne,  with  superior  charms. 
Triumphs  o^er  reason  :  in  her  look  she  bears 
A  paradise  of  ever-blooming  sweets ; 
Fair  as  the  iirst  idea  beauty  prints 
In  her  young  lover's  soul ;  a  winning  grace 
Guides  every  gesture,  and  obsequious  love 
Attends  on  all  her  steps. 

"  Triumphing  o'er  reason"  is  an  old  acquaintance  of  every- 
body's. "  Paradise  in  her  look  "  is  from  the  Italian  poets  through 
Dryden.  "  Fair  as  the  first  idea,"  &c.,  is  from  Milton  spoilt ; 
"winning  grace"  and  "steps"  from  Milton  and  Tibullus,  both 
spoilt.  Whenever  beauties  are  stolen  by  such  a  writer,  they  are 
sure  to  be  spoilt ;  just  as  when  a  great  writer  borrows,  he 
improves. 

To  comenowjto  Fancy,;— sheJs  a  jroun^er  sister  ofTmagina^ 
tion,  without  the  ojiier's  weight^f  Jjiought  and  feeling.  Imagi- 
"naHon  indeed,  purely  so  called,  is  allfeeling  ;  the^eling  of  the 
subtlest  anH^fidSt  affecllhg  analo^es ;  the  perception  of  sympa- 
thies'Tit'Tlie  iialures^f  things,  or  in  their  popular  attributes. 
FancyJs-sponing  with  thfiir.r6§fixnblaacey  real  or  supposed,  and 
with  airv  and  fantastical  creations. 


WHAT  IS  POETRY?  2X 


Rouse  yourself;  and  the  weak  wanton  Cupid 
Shall  from  your  neck  unloose  his  amorous  fold, 
And,  like  a  dew-drop  from  the  lion's  mane. 
Be  shook  to  air. 

Troilus  and  Cressida,  Act  iii.,  sc.  3. 

That  is  imagination  ; — the  strong  mind  sympathizing, with  the 
strong  beast,  and  the  weak  love  identified  with  the  weak  dew- 
drop. 

Oh  ! — and  I  forsooth 
In  love !  I  that  have  been  love's  whip  I 
A  very  beadle  to  a  humorous  sigh  ! — 
A  domineering  pedant  o'er  tlie  boy, — 
This  whimpled,  whining,  purblind,  wayward  boy, — 
This  senior-junior,  giant-dwarf,  Dan  Cupid, 
Regent  of  love-rhymes,  lord  of  folded  arms. 
The  anointed  sovereign  of  sighs  and  groans.  Sec. 

Love's  Labor'' s  Lost,  Act  iii.,  sc.  1. 

That  is  fancy  ;-^=a  combination  of  images  not  m  their  nature 
connected,  or  brought  together  by  the  feeling,  but  by  the  will 
and  pleasure ;  and  having  just  enough  hold  of  analogy  to  betray 
it  into  the  hands  of  its  smiling  subjector. 

Silent  icicles 
Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  moon. 

Coleridge's  Frost  at  Midnight. 

That,  again,  is  imagination  ; — analogical  sympathy  ;  and  exqui- 
site of  its  kind  it  is. 

**  You  are  now  sailed  into  the  north  of  my  lady's  opinion  ;  where  you 
will  hang  like  an  icicle  on  a  Dutchman's  beard,  unless  you  do  redeem  it  by 
some  laudable  attempt." 

Twelfth  JSTight,  Act  iii ,  sc.  2. 

And  that  is  fancy; — one Jjnagjg  caprigiouslv  suggested  byLan- 
other^  and  but  half  connected  with_the  subject  of  discourse; 
nay,  half  oppose3~to  it;  for  m  the  gaiety  of  the  speaker's  ani- 
mal spirits,  the  "Dutchman's  beard"  is  made  to  represent  the 
lady ! 

Ima^gination_belQIigsJo  Tragedy,  or  the  serious  muse ;  Fancy 


22  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

tQ_lhe  comic.  Macbeth,  Lear,  Paradise  Lost,  the  poem  of 
Dante,  are  full  of  imagination :  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream 
and  the  Rape  of  the  Lock,  of  fancy  :  Romeo  and  Juliet,  the 
Tempest,  the  Fairy  Queen,  and  the  Orlando  Furioso,  of  both. 
The  terms  were  formerly  identical,  or  used  as  such  ;  and  neither 
is  the  best  that  might  be  found.  The  term  Imagination  is  too 
confined  :  often  too  material.  It  presents  too  invariably  the  idea 
of  a  solid  body  ; — of  "images"  in  the  sense  of  the  plaster-cast 
cry  about  the  streets.  Fancy,  on  the  other  hand,  while  it 
means  nothing  but  a  spiritual  image  or  apparition  (fpaviaoiia^ 
appearance,  phantom),  has  rarely  that  freedom  from  visibility 
which  is  one  of  the  highest  privileges  of  imagination.  Viola,  in 
Twelfth  Night,  speaking  of  some  beautiful  music,  says : — 

It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat, 
Where  Love  is  throned. 

In  this  charming  thought,  fancy  and  imagination  are  combined  ; 
yet  the  fancy,  the  assumption  of  Love's  sitting  on  a  throne, 
is  the  image  of  a  solid  body  ;  while  the  imagination,  the  sense  of 
sympathy  between  the  passion  of  love  and  impassioned  music, 
presents  us  no  image  at  aH.  Some  new  term  is  wanting  to 
express  the  more  spiritual  sympathies  of  what  is  called  Imagi- 
nation. 

One  of  thejeache^ofjjria^ination  is  MelaxLcholyj^  and  like 
Melancholy,  as  Albert  Durer  has  painted  her,  she  looks  out 
among  the  stars,  and  is  busied  with  spiritual  affinities  and  the 
mysteries  of  tha  universe.  Fancy  turns  her  sister's  wizard  in- 
struments into  toys.  She  takes  a  telescope  in  her  hand,  and 
puts  a  mimic  star  on  her  forehead,  and  sallies  forth  as  an  em- 
blem of  astronomy.  Her  tendency  is  to  the  child-like  and  sport- 
ive. She  chases  butterflies,  while  her  sister  takes  flight  with 
angels.  She  is  the  genius  of  fairies,  of  gallantries,  of  fashions ; 
of  whatever  is  quaint  and  light,  showy  and  capricious  ;  of  the 
poetical  part  of  wit.  She  adds  wings  and  feelings  to  the  images 
of  wit;  and  delights  as  much  to  people  nature  with  smiling 
ideal  sympathies,  as  wit  does  to  bring  antipathies  together,  and 
make  them  strike  light  on  absurdity.     Fancy,  however,  is  not 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  23 


incapable  of  sympathy  with  Imagination.  She  is  often  found  in  1 
her  company  ;  always,  in  the  case  of  the  greatest  poets  ;  often 
in  that  of  less,  though  with  them  she  is  the  greater  favorite. 
Spenser  has  great  imagination  and  fancy  too,  but  more  of  the 
latter  ;  Milton  both  also,  the  very  greatest,  but  with  imagination 
predominant;  Chaucer,  the  strongest  imagination  of  real  life, 
beyond  any  writers  but  Homer,  Dante,  and  Shakspeare,  and  in 
comic  painting  inferior  to  none  ;  Pope  has  hardly  any  imagina- 
tion, but  he  has  a  great  deal  of  fancy  ;  Coleridge  little  fancy, 
but  imagination  exquisite.  Shakspeare  alone,  of  all  poets  that 
ever  lived,  enjoyed  the  regard  of  both  in  equal  perfection.  A  ^ 
whole  fairy  poem  of  his  writing  will  be  found  in  the  present 
volume.  See  also  his  famous  description  of  Queen  Mab  and  her 
equipage,  in  Romeo  and  Juliet : — 

Her  waggon-spokes  made  of  long  spinners'  legs ; 

The  cover,  of  the  wings  of  grasshoppers ; 

Her  traces  of  the  smallest  spider's  web ; 

Her  collars  of  the  moonshine's  watery  beams,  &c. 

That  is  Fancy,  in  its  playful  creativeness.  As  a  small  but 
pretty  rival  specimen,  less  known,  take  the  description  of  a 
fairy  palace  from  Drayton's  Nymphidia : — 

This  palace  standeth  in  the  air. 
By  necromancy  placed  there, 
That  it  no  tempest  needs  to  fear, 

Which  way  soe'er  it  blow  it: 
And  somewhat  southward  tow'rd  the  noon. 
Whence  lies  a  way  up  to  the  moon, 
And  thence  the  Fairy  can  as  soon 

Pass  to  the  earth  below  it. 
The  walls  of  spiders'  legs  are  made. 
Well  morticed  and  finely  laid : 
He  was  the  master  of  his  trade. 

It  curiously  that  builded : 
The  windows  of  the  eyes  of  cats  : 


(because  they  see  best  at  night) 


And  for  the  roof  instead  of  slats 
Is  cover'd  with  the  skins  of  bats 
With  moonshine  that  are  gilded. 


24  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

Here  also  is  a  fairy  bed,  very  delicate,  from  the  same  poet's 
Muse's  Elysium. 

Of  leaves  of  roses,  white  and  redt 
Shall  be  the  covering  of  the  bed ; 
The  curtains,  vallens,  tester  all. 
Shall  be  the  flower  imperial ; 
And  for  the  fringe  it  all  along 
With  azure  hare-bells  shall  be  hung. 
Of  lilies  shall  the  pillows  be 
With  down  stuft  of  the  butterfly. 

Of  fancy,  so  full  of  gusto  as  to  border  on  imagination,  Sir  John 
Suckling,  in  his  "  Ballad  on  a  Wedding,"  has  given  some  of  the 
most  playful  and  charming  specimens  in  the  language.  They 
glance  like  twinkles  in  the  eye,  or  cherries  bedewed  • 

Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat. 
Like  little  mice  stole  in  and  out. 

As  if  they  fear' d  the  light ; 
But  oh  !  she  dances  such  a  way ! 
JVo  sun  upon  an  Easter  day. 

Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 

It  is  very  daring,  and  has  a  sort  of  playful  grandeur,  to  compare 
a  lady's  dancing  with  the  sun.  But  as  the  sun  has  it  all  to  him- 
self in  the  heavens,  so  she,  in  the  blaze  of  her  beauty,  on  earth. 
This  is  imagination  fairly  displacing  fancy.  The  following  has 
enchanted  everybody : — 

Her  lips  were  red,  and  one  was  thin. 
Compared  with  that  was  next  her  chin. 
Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly. 

Every  reader  has  stolen  a  kiss  at  that  lip,  gay  or  grave. 

With  regayd  to_thfi-pxiiicipla.^  Varietj[_inJ{i^£Mmitvby^^ 
which  verse ^yfflit  to  be  modulated,  and^one-ness  of  impi;essio]tt 
diversely  produced,  itTiasbeen  colatendea~by  some,  that  Poetry 
need  not  be  written  in  verse  at  all ;  that  prose  is  as  good  a  me- 
dium, provided  poetry  be  conveyed  through  it ;  and  that  to  think 
otherwise  is  to  confound  letter  with  spirit,  or  form  with  essence. 
But  the  opinion  is  a  prosaical  mistake.   Fitness  and  unfitness  fop 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  25 


sons,  or  metrical  excitemfinkjust  mgike  all  the  difference  between 
a  poetical  aad_prosaical  subject;  and  the  j;;easori jvhy  verse  is 
necessary  to  the  form  of  poetry,  is,  that  the  perfection  of  poetical 
spirit  demands  it ;  that  the  circle  of  enthusiasm^  beauty,  and 
power,  is  incomplete  without,  it.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  a 
poet  can  never  show  himself  a  poet  in  prose  ;  but  that,  being  one, 
his  desire  and  necessity  will  be  to  write  in  verse;  and  that,  if  he 
were  unable  to  do  so,  he  would  not,  and  could  not,  deserve  his 
title.  Verse  to  the  true  poet  is  no  clog.  It  is  idly  called  a 
trammel  and  a  difficulty.  It  is  a  help.  It  springs  from  the 
same  enthusiasm  as  the  rest  of  his  impulses,  and  is  necessary  to 
their  saEsfaction  and  effect  Verse  is  no  more  a  clog  than  the 
condition  of  rushing  upward  is  a  clog  to  fire,  or  than  the  round- 
ness and  order  of  the  globe  we  live  on  is  a  clog  to  the  freedom 
and  variety  that  abound  within  its  sphere.  Verse  is  nq^domi- 
nator  over  the  poet,  except  inasmuch  as  the  bond  is  reciprocal, 
and  the  poet  dominates  over  the  verse.  They  are  lovers  play- 
fully challenging  each  other's  rule,  and  delighted  equally  to  rule 
and  to  obey.  Verse  is  the  final  proof  to  the  poet  that  his  mastery 
over  his_aTtis_complete.  It  is  the  shutting  up  of  hjs  powers^ in 
*'measureful  content;^'  the  answer  of  form  to  his  spirit :  of  strength 
and  ease  to  his  guidance.  It  is  the  willing  action,  the  proud  and 
fiery  happiness,  of  the  winged  steed  on  whose  back  he  has  vaulted. 

To  witch  the  world  with  wondrous  horsemanship. 

Verse,  in  short,  is  that  finishing,  and  rounding,  and  "tuneful 
planetting"  of  the  poet's  creations,  which  is  produced  of  neces- 
sity by  the  smooth  tendencies  of  their  energy  or  inward  working, 
and  the  harmonious  dance  into  which  they  are  attracted  round 
the  orb  of  the  beautiful.  Poetry,  in  its  complete  sympathy  with 
beauty,  must,  of  necessity,  leave  no  sense  of  the  beautiful,  and 
no  power  over  its  forms,  unmanifested  ;  and  verse  flows  as 
inevitably  from  this  condition  of  its  integrity,  as  other  laws  of 
proportion  do  from  any  other  kind  of  embodiment  of  beauty  (say 
that  of  the  human  figure),  however  free  and  various  the  move- 
ments may  be  that  play  within  their  limits.  What  great  poet 
ever  wrote  his  poems  in  prose  ?  or  where  is  a  good  prose  poem, 
of  any  length,  to  be  found  ?     The  poetry  of  the  Bible  is  under- 


26  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

stood  to  be  in  verse,  in  the  original.  Mr.  Hazlitt  has  said  a 
good  word  for  those  prose  enlargements  of  some  fine  old  song, 
which  are  known  by  the  name  of  Ossian  ;  and  in  passages  they 
deserve  what  he  said  ;  but  he  judiciously  abstained  from  saying 
anything  about  the  form.  Is  Gesner's  D^^ath  of  Abel  a  poem  ? 
or  Hervey's  Meditations  ?  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  has  been 
called  one ;  and,  undoubtedly,  Bunyan  had  a  genius  which 
tended  to  make  him  a  poet,  and  one  of  no  mean  order;  and  yet 
it  was  of  as  ungenerous  and  low  a  sort  as  was  compatible  with 
so  lofty  an  affinity  ;  and  this  is  the  reason  why  it  stopped  where 

(it  did.  He  had  a  craving  after  the  beautiful,  but  not  enough  of 
it  in  himself  to  echo  to  its  music.  On  the  other  hand,  the  pos- 
session of  the  beautiful  will  not  be  sufficient  without  force  to 
l^utter  it.  The  author  of  Telemachus  had  a  soul  full  of  beauty 
and  tenderness.  He  was  not  a  man  who,  if  he  had  had  a  wife 
and  children,  would  have  run  away  from  them,  as  Bunyan's 
hero  did,  to  get  a  place  by  himself  in  heaven.  He  was  "a  little 
lower  than  the  angels,"  like  our  own  Bishop  Jewells  andBerke- 
leys ;  and  yet  he  was  no  poet.  He  was  too  delicately,  not  to 
say  feebly,  absorbed  in  his  devotions,  to  join  in  the  energies  of 
the  seraphic  choir. 

Every  poet,  then,  is  a  versifier ;  every^fin^^ppet-^n  ^excelLent 
oiifi.4^_^and  he  is^he  b^t  whose  jzfirse  exhibits  the  greatest 
amount  qf  strength^^weetness,  straightforwardness,  unsuperfli;- 
(msness^vaTiet^l^j^nd_on^  that  is  to_say,  consist- 

ency,  in  the  general  impressiqiijnietrical  and  morajj^andvarietv, 
or  every~pertinent  diversity  of  tone  and  rhytHm7in  the  process. 
,    Strength's  the  mu^le^ of  verse,  aiMLshows  itself  in  the_numbei 
and  force  of  the  marked  syllables  ;  as, 

Sonorous  metal  blowing  martial  sounds. 

Paradise  Lost. 

Behemoth,  biggest  born  of  earth,  upheav'd 
His  vastness. 

Id. 

Blow  winds  and  crack  your  cheeks  ?  rage !  blow ! 

You  cataracts  and  hurricanoes,  spout, 

Till  you  have  drfench'd  our  steeples,  drown'd  the  cocks ! 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  .       P  27 


You  sulphurous  and  thought-executing  fires. 
Vaunt  couriers  of  oak-cleaving  thunderbolts, 
Singe  my  white  head  !  and  thou,  all-shaking  thiinder, 
Strike  flit  the  thick  rotundity  o'  the  world ! 

Lear. 

Unexpected  locations  of  the  accent  double  this  force,  and 
render  it  characteristic  of  passion  and  abruptness.  And  here 
comes  into  play  the  reader's  corresponding  fineness  of  ear,  and 
his  retardations  and  accelerations  in  accordance  with  those  of 
the  poet : — 

Then  in  the  keyhole  turns 
The  intricate  wards,  and  every  bolt  and  bar 
Unfastens.     On  a  siidden  open  fly 
With  impetuous  recoil  and  jarring  sound 
The  infernal  doors,  and  on  their  hinges  grate 
Harsh  thunder. 

Par.  Lost,  Book  II. 

Abominable — uniitterable — and  worse 
Than  fables  yet  have  feigned. 

Id. 

Wallowing  iinwieldy — enormous  in  their  gait. 

Id. 

Of  unusual  passionate  accent,  there  is  an  exquisite  specimen 
in  the  Fairy  Queen,  where  Una  is  lamenting  her  desertion  by 
the  Red-Cross  Knight : — 

But  he,  my  lion,  and  my  noble  lord. 
How  does  he  find  in  cruel  heart  to  hate 
Her  that  him  lov'd,  and  ever  most  ador'd 
As  the  gbd  of  my  life  7    Why  hath  he  me  abhorr'd  ? 

See  the  whole  stanza,  with  a  note  upon  it,  in  the  present 
volume. 

The  abuse  ofstrength  is  haighnessandjieaviness ;  the-ce^ 
ve4[se_j2fjtjs7weaEness.  There  is  a  noble  sentiment, — it  ap-- 
pears  both  in  Daniel's  and  Sir  John  Beaumont's  works,  but  is 
most  probably  the  latter's, — which  is  a  perfect  outrage  of 
strength  in  the  sound  of  the  words : — 


28  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

Only  the  firmest  and  the  constanfst  hearts 
God  sets  to  act  the  stoufst  and  hardest  parts. 

Stout'st  and  constanVst  for  "  stoutest "  and  "  most  constant !" 
It  is  as  bad  as  the  intentional  crabbedness  of  the  line  in  Hudi> 
bras; 

He  that  hangs  or  heats  oufs  brains, 
The  devil's  in  him  if  he  feigns. 

Beats  ouVs  brains,  for  "  beats  out  his  brains."  Of  heaviness, 
Da-venant's  "  Gondibert  "is  a  formidable  specimen,  almost 
throughout : — 

With  silence  (order's  help,  and  mark  of  care) 

They  chide  that  noise  which  heedless  youth  affect; 
Still  course  for  use,  for  health  they  clearness  wear, 

And  save  in  well-lix'd  arms,  all  nlceness  check'd. 
They  thought,  those  that,  unarmed,  expos'd  frail  life, 

But  naked  nature  valiantly  betray'd ; 
Who  was,  thoijgh  naked,  safe,  till  pride  made  strife. 

But  made  defence  must  use,  now  danger's  made. 

And  so  he  goes  digging  and  lumbering  on,  like  a  heavy 
preacher  thumping  the  pulpit  in  italics,  and  spoiling  many  in- 
genious reflections. 

\^!i^fiakQess  in  versification  is  want  of  accent  and  emphasis. 
It  generally  accompanies  prosaicalness,  andjsjjie^^onseguenee 
of  weak  thoughts,  and  of  the  affectation  of  a  certain  well-bred 
enthusiasm^  THe  writings  of  the  late  Mr.  Hayley  were  re- 
markable for  it ;  and  it  abounds  among  the  lyrical  imitators  of 
Cowley,  and  the  whole  of  what  is  called  our  French  school  of 
poetry,  when  it  aspired  above  its  wit  and  "sense."  It  some- 
times breaks  down  in  a  horrible,  hopeless  manner,  as  if  giving 
way  at  the  first  step.  The  following  ludicrous  passage  in  Con- 
greve,  intended  to  be  particularly  fine,  contains  an  instance : — 

And  lo  !  Silence  himself  is  here  ; 
Methinks  I  see  the  midnight  god  appear. 
In  all  his  downy  pomp  array'd. 
Behold  the  reverend  shade. 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  29 


An  ancient  sigh  he  sits  upon  !  !  ! 
Whose  memory  of  sound  is  long  since  gone. 
And  purposely  annihilated  for  his  throne  !  ! 

Ode  on  the  singing  of  Mrs.  .Arabella  Hunt. 

See  also  the  would-be  enthusiasm  of  Addison  about  music : 

For  ever  consecrate  the  day 
To  music  and  Cecilia  ; 
Music,  the  greatest  good  that  mortals  know. 
And  all  of  heaven  we  have  below. 
Music  can  noble  hints  impart !  !  ! 

It  is  observable  that  the  unpoetic  masters  of  ridicule  are  apt 
to  make  the  most  ridiculous  mistakes,  when  they  come  to  affect 
a  strain  higher  than  the  one  they  are  accustomed  to.  But  no 
wonder.  Their  habits  neutralize  the  enthusiasm  it  requires. 
4,  Sweetness,  though  not  identical  with  smootb"*>s«)  ^"7  rr^^*t.  ' 
thanjeeling  is  with  sound,  always  ino.lndps  it;^  and  smoothness 
is  a  thing  so  little  to  be  regarded  for  its  own  sake,  and  indeed  so 
worthless  in  poetry  but  for  some  taste  of  sweetness,  that  I  have 
not  thought  necessary  to  mention  it  by  itself;  though  such  an 
all-in-all  in  versification  was  it  regarded  not  a  hundred  years 
back,  that  Thomas  Warton  himself,  an  idolater  of  Spenser,  ven- 
tured to  wish  the  following  line  in  the  Fairy  Queen, 

And  was  admired  much  of  fools,  wbmen,  and  boys — 

altered  to 

And  was  admired  much  of  women,  fools,  and  boys — 

thus  destroying  the  fine  scornful  emphasis  on  the  first  syllable  of 
"  women !"  (an  ungallant  intimation,  by  the  way,  against  the 
fair  sex,  very  startling  in  this  no  less  woman-loving  than  great 
poet.)     Any  poetaster  can  be  smooth.     Smoothness  abounds  in 
all  small  poets,  as  sweetness  does  in  the  greater.   ^Sweetness  is    ■. 
the  smoothness  of  grace  and  delicacv,-^rof  the-  sympath-YJVKith  ,,1 
the  pleasmg^andjo^ly.     Spenser  is  full  of  it, — Shakspeare —  -^ 
tJeaumont  and  Fletcher — Coleridge.     Of  Spenser's  and  Cole-  ^j 
ridge's  versification  it  is  the  prevailing  characteristic.     Its  main 
secrets  are  a  smooth  progression  between  variety  and  sameness, 


30  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

and  a  voluptuous  sense  of  the  continuous, — "  linked  sweetness 
long  drawn  out."  Observe  the  first  and  last  lines  of  the  stanza 
in  the  Fairy  Queen,  describing  a  shepherd  brushing  away  the 
gnats  ; — the  open  and  the  close  e'^  in  the  one, 

As  gentle  shepherd  in  sweet  eventide — 

and  the  repetition  of  the  word  qft^  and  the  fall  from  the  vowel 
a,  into  the  two  u's  in  the  other, — 

She  brusheth  oft^  and  oft  doth  mar  their  murmiirings. 

So  in  his  description  of  two  substances  in  the  handling,  both 
equally  smooth  j — 

Each  smoother  seems  than  each,  and  each  than  each  seems  smoother. 

An  abundance  of  examples  from  his  poetry  will  be  found  in 
the  volume  before  us.  His  beauty  revolves  on  itself  with  con- 
scious loveliness.  And  Coleridge  is  worthy  to  be  named  with 
him^as  thti  rt^ader  will  see  also,  and  has  seen  already.  Let 
him  take  a  sample  meanwhile  from  the  poem  called  the  Day- 
Dream  !  Observe  both  the  variety  and  sameness  of  the  vowels, 
and  the  repetition  of  the  soft  consonants : — 

My  eyes  make  pictures  when  they're  shut : — 

I  see  a  fountain,  large  and  fair, 
A  willow  and  a  ruin'd  hut, 

And  thee  and  me  and  Mary  there. 
O  Mary  !  make  thy  gentle  lap  our  pillow  ; 
Bend  o'er  us^  like  a  bower,  my  beautiful  green  willow. 

(^P  By  Straifrhtforwardness^  meant  the  flowof  words  in  their 
'  natural  order,  free  alike  from  mere  prose,  anHTrom  those  inver- 
'Sions  to  whicli  bad  poeTslrecuFnTbrder  to"escape  the  charge  of 
prose,  buf  chiefly  to  accommodate  their  rhymes.  In  ShadwelPs 
^lay  of  Psyche,  Venus  gives  the  sisters  of  the  heroine  an  an- 
swer, of  which  the  following  is  the  entire  substance,  literally, 
in  so  many  words.  The  author  had  nothing  better  for  her  to 
say: 

"  I  receive  your  prayers  with  kindness,  and  will  give  success  to  your 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  31 


nopes.  I  have  seen,  with  anger,  mankind  adore  your  sister's  bean^  and 
deplore  her  scorn  :  which  they  shall  do  no  more.  For  I'll  so  resent  their 
idolatry,  as  shall  content  your  wishes  to  the  full." 

Now  in  default  of  all  imagination,  fancy,  and  expression, 
how  was  the  writer  to  turn  these  words  into  poetry  or  rhyme  ? 
Simply  by  diverting  them  from  their  natural  order,  and  twisting 
the  halves  of  the  sentences  each  before  the  other. 

With  kindness  I  your  prayers  receive, 

And  to  your  hopes  success  will  give. 
I  have,  with  anger,  seen  mankind  adore 
Your  sister's  beauty  and  her  scorn  deplore  ; 

Which  they  shall  do  no  more. 
For  their  idolatry  I'll  so  resent. 
As  shall  your  wishes  to  the  full  content ! ! 

This  is  just  as  if  a  man  were  to  allow  that  there  was  no 
poetry  in  the  words,  "How  do  you  find  yourself?"  "Very 
well,  I  thank  you ;"  but  to  hold  them  inspired,  if  altered  into 

Yourself  how  do  you  find  ? 
Very  well,  you  I  thank. 

It  is  true,  the  best  writers  in  Shadwell's  age  were  addicted  to 
these  inversionSi4)artly  for  their  own  reasons,  as  far  as  rhyme 
was  concerned,  and  partly  because  they  held  it  to  be  writing  in 
the  classical  and  Virgilian  manner.  What  has  since  been 
called  Artificial  Poetry  was  then  flourishing,  in  contradistinction 
To  i;jatural ;  or  Poetry"seen  chiefly  through  art  and  books,  and 
not  in  its  first  sources.  But  when  the  artificial  poet  partook  of 
the  natural,  or,  in  other  words,  was  a  true  poet  after  his  kind, 
his  best  was  always  wri4;ten  in  the  most  natural  and  straight- 
forward manner.  Hear  Shadwell's  antagonist  Dryden.  Not  a 
particle  of  inversion,  beyond  what  is  used  for  the  sake  of  em- 
phasis in  common  discourse,  and  this  only  in  one  line  (the  last 
but  three),  is  to  be  found  in  his  immortal  character  of  the  Duke 
of  Buckingham : — 

A  man  so  various,  that  he  seemed  to  be 
Not  one,  but  all  mankind's  epitome : 


32  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 


Stiff  in  opinions,  always  in  the  wrong, 
Was  everything  by  starts,  and  nothing  long  ; 
But  in  the  course  of  one  revolving  moon 
Was  chemist,  fiddler,  statesman,  and  buffoon  : 
Then  all  for  women,  rhyming,  dancing,  drinking, 
Besides  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died  in  thinking. 
Blest  madman!  who  could  every  hour  employ 
With  something  new  to  wish  or  to  enjoy  ! 
Railing  and  praising  were  his  usual  themes ; 
And  both,  to  show  his  judgment,  in  extremes: 
So  over  violent,  or  over  civil. 
That  every  man  with  him  was  god  or  devil. 
In  squandering  wealth  was  his  peculiar  art ; 
JYothing  went  unrewarded,  but  desert. 
Beggar'd  by  fools,  whom  still  he  found  too  late. 
He  had  hisjest,  and  they  had  his  estate. 

^  Inversion  j^elf  was  often  turned  into  a  grace  in  these  poets, 
and  may  IBein  others,  hj  the  power  of  being  superior  to  it ; 
using  it  only  with  a  classical  aTr7aiiJ  as  a  help  lying  next  to 
them,'i'g§tea(l  ot  a"salvation  which  they  are  obliged  to  seek.  In 
jesting  passages  also  it  sometimes  gave  the  rhyme  a  turn  agree- 
ably wilful,  or  an  appearance  of  choosing  what  lay  in  its  way ; 
as  if  a  man  should  pick  up  a  stone  to  throw  at  another's  head, 
where  a  less  confident  foot  would  have  stumbled  over  it.  Such 
is  Dryden's  use  of  the  word  might — ^the  mere  sign  of  a  tense — 
in  his  pretended  ridicule  of  the  monkish  practice  of  rising  to 
sing  psalms  in  the  night. 

And  much  they  griev'd  to  see  so  nigh  their  hall 
The  bird  that  warn'd  St.  Peter  of  his  fall ; 
That  he  should  raise  his  mitred  crest  on  high. 
And  clap  his  wings  and  call  his  family 
To  sacred  rites ;  and  vex  th'  ethereal  powers 
With  midnight  matins  at  uncivil  hours  ; 
Nay  more,  his  quiet  neighbors  should  molest 
Just  in  the  sweetness  of  their  morning  rest. 

(What  a  line  full  of  "  another  doze  "  is  that !) 

Beast  of  a  bird  !  supinely,  when  he  might 
Lie  snug  and  sleep,  to  rise  before  the  light ! 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  33 

What  if  his  dull  forefathers  used  that  cry  ? 
Could  he  not  let  a  bad  example  die  ? 

I  the  more  gladly  quote  instances  like  those  of  Dryden,  to 
illustrate  the  points  in  question,  because  they  are  specimens  of 
the  very  highest  kind  of  writing  in  the  heroic  couplet  upon  sub- 
jects not  heroical.    As  to  prosaicainess  in  general,  it  is  sometimes'^/ 
indulged  in  by  young  writers  on  the  plea  of  its  being  natural ;  j 
but  this  is  a  mere  confusion  of  triviality  with  propriety,  and  is  j 
usually  the  result  of  indolence. 
^      Unsuperfluousness  is  rather  a  matter  of  style  in  general,  than~  ) 
of  the  sound  and  order  of  words :  and  yet  versification  is  so    ' 
much  strengthened  by  it,  and  so  much  weakened  by  its  opposite, 
that  it  could  not  but  come  within  the  category  of  its  requisites. 
When  superfluousness  of  words  is  not  occasioned  by  overflowing 
animal  spirits,   as  in  Beaumont  and   Fletcher,   or  by  the  very 
genius  of  luxury,  as  in  Spenser  (in  which  cases  it  is  enrichment 
as  well  as  overflow),  there  is  no  worse  sign  for  a  poet  altogether, 
except  pure  barrenness.     Every  word  that  could  be  taken  away 
from  a  poem,  unreferable  to  either  of  the  above  reasons  for  it,  is 
a  damage ;  and  many  such  are  death ;  for  there  is  nothing  that 
posterity  seems  so  determined  to  resent  as  this  want  of  respect 
for  its  time  and  trouble.     The  world  is  too  rich  in  books  to  en-  [ 
dure   it.     Even  true  poets  have  died  of  this    Writer's   Evil. 
Trifling  ones  have  survived,  with  scarcely  any  pretensions  but 
the  terseness  of  their  trifles.     What  hope  can  remain  for  wordy 
mediocrity  ?     Let  the  discerning  reader  take  up  any  poem,  pen 
in  hand,  for  the  purpose  of  discovering  how  many  words  he  can 
strike  out  of  it  that  give  him  no  requisite  ideas,  no  relevant  ones 
that  he  cares  for,  and  no  reasons  for  the  rhyme  beyond  its  ne- 
cessity, and  he  will  see  what  blot  and  havoc  he  will  make  in 
many  an  admired  production  of  its  day, — what  marks  of  its 
inevitable  fate.    Bulky  authors  in  particular,  however  safe  they 
may  think  themselves,  would  do  well  to  consider  what  parts  of 
their  cargo  they  might  dispense  with  in  their  proposed  voyage 
down  the  gulfs  of  time ;  for  many  a  gallant  vessel,  thought  in- 
destructible in  its  age,  has  perished  ; — many  a  load  of  words, 
expected  to  be  in  eternal  demand,  gone  to  join  the  wrecks  of 
4 


34  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

self-love,  or  rotted  in  the  warehouses  of  change  and  vicissitude. 
I  have  said  the  more  on  this  point,  because  in  an  age  ^vhen  the 
true  inspiration  has  undoubtedly  been  re-awakened  by  Coleridge 
and  his  fellows,  and  we  have  so  many  new  poets  coming  for- 
ward, it  may  be  as  well  to  give  a  general  warning  against  that 
tendency  to  an  accumulation  and  ostentation  of  thoughts,  which 
iF  meant~toTe~  a  refutation  in  full  of  the  pretensions  of  all 
poetry  ^ess_cogitabund,  whatever  may  be  the  requirements  of  its 
class.  Young  writers  should  bear  in  mind,  that  even  some  of 
the  very  best  materials  for  poetry  are  not  poetry  built ;  and  that 
the  smallest  marble  shrine,  of  exquisite  workmanship,  outvalues 
all  that  architect  ever  chipped  away.  Whatever  can  be  dis- 
pensed with  is  rubbish. 

Variety  m  versification  consists  in  whatsoever  can  be  done  for 
the  prevention  of  jngiiatany,  by  diversity  of  stops  and  cadences, 
I  distribution  of  emphasis,  and  retardation  and  acceleration  of 
!  time ;  for  the  whole  real  secret  of  versification  is  a  musical 
secret,  and  is  not  attainable  to  any  vital  effect,  save  by  the  ear 
_  of  genius.  All  the  mere  knowledge  of  feet  and  numbers,  of 
accent  and  quantity,  will  no  more  impart  it,  than  a  knowledge 
of  the  "  Guide  to  Music"  will  make  a  Beethoven  or  a  Paisiello. 
It  is  a  matter  of  sensibility  ajid  imagination ;  of  the  beautiful  in 
poeti^aT^ssion,  accompanied  by  musisal ;  of  the  imperative 
necessity  for  a  pause  here,  and  a  cadence  there,  and  a  quicker 
or  slower  utterance  in  this  or  that  place,  created  by  analogies 
of  sound  with  sense,  by  the  fluctuations  of  feeling,  by  the  de- 
mands of  the  gods  and  graces  that  visit  the  poet's  harp,  as  the 
winds  visit  that  of  -^olus.  The  same  time  and  quantity  which 
are  occasioned  by  the  spiritual  part  of  this  secret,  thus  become 
its  formal  ones, — not  feet  and  syllables,  long  and  short,  iambics 
or  trochees ;  which  are  the  reduction  of  it  to  its  less  than  dry 
bones.  You  might  get,  for  instance,  not  only  ten  and  eleven, 
but  thirteen  or  fourteen  syllables  into  a  rhyming,  as  well  as 
blank,  heroical  verse,  if  time  and  the  feeling  permitted  ;  and  in 
irregular  measure  this  is  often  done ;  just  as  musicians  put 
twenty  notes  in  a  bar  instead  of  two,  quavers  instead  of  minims, 
according  as  the  feeling  they  are  expressing  impels  them  to  fill 
up  the  time  with  ,short  and  hurried  notes,  or  with  long ;  or  as 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  35 


the  choristers  in  a  cathedral  retard  or  precipitate  the  words  of 
the  chaunt,  according  as  the  quantity  of  its  notes,  and  the  colon 
which  divides  the  verse  of  the  psalm,  conspire  to  demand  it. 
Had  the  moderns  borne  this  principle  in  mind  when  they  settled 
the  prevailing  systems  of  verse,  instead  of  learning  them,  as 
they  appear  to  have  done,  from  the  first  drawling  and  one-sylla- 
bled notation  of  the  church  hymns,  we  should  have  retained  all 
the  advantages  of  the  more  numerous  versification  of  the  an- 
cients, without  being  compelled  to  fancy  that  there  was  no  alter- 
native for  us  between  our  syllabical  uniformity  and  the  hexame- 
ters or  other  special  forms  unsuited  to  our  tongues.  But  to 
leave  this  question  alone,  we  will  present  the  reader  with  a  few 
sufficing  specimens  of  the  difTerence  between  monotony  and 
variety  in  versification,  first  from  Pope,  Dryd'eri,  and  Milton, 
and  next  from  Gay  and  Coleridge.  The  following  is  the  boasted 
melody  of  the  nevertheless  exquisite  poet  of  the  "  Rape  of  the 
Lock," — exquisite  in  his  wit  and  fancy,  though  not  in  his  num- 
bers. The  reader  will  observe  that  it  is  literally  see-saw,  like  ' 
the  rising  and  falling  of  a  plank,  with  a  light  person  at  one  end 
who  is  jerked  up  in  the  briefer  time,  and  a  heavier  one  who  is 
set  down  more  leisurely  at.  the  other.  It  is  in  the  otherwise 
charming  description  of  the  heroine  of  that  poem  : — 

On  her  white  breast — a  sparkling  cross  she  wore. 
Which  Jews  might  kiss — and  infidels  adore ; 
Her  lively  looks — a  sprightly  mind  disclose. 
Quick  as  her  eyes — and  as  unfix'd  as  those ; 
Favors  to  none — to  all  she  smiles  extends. 
Oft  she  rejects — but  never  once  offends ; 
Bright  as  the  sun — her  eyes  the  gazers  strike. 
And  like  the  sun — they  shine  on  all  alike  ; 
Yet  graceful  ease — and  sweetness  void  of  pride, 
Might  hide  her  faults — if  beiles  had  faults  to  hide  ; 
If  to  her  share — some  female  errors  fall, 
Look  on  her  face — and  you'll  forget  them  all. 

Compare  with  this  the  description  of  Iphigenia  in  one  of  Dry- 
den's  stories  from  Boccaccio  : — 


It  happen' d — on  a  summer's  holiday. 

That  to  the  greemvood  shade — he  took  his  way. 

For  Cymon  shunn'd  the  church — and  used  not  much  to  praf; 


,} 


/ 


36  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 


His  quarter-staff — which  he  could  ne'er  forsake, 
Hung  half  before — and  half  behind  his  back : 
He  trudg'd  along — not  knowing  what  he  sought. 
And  whistled  as  he  went — for  want  of  thought. 

By  chance  conducted — or  by  thirst  constrain'd, 

The  deep  recesses  of  a  grove  he  gain'd  ; — 

Where — in  a  plain  defended  by  a  wood,  'j 

Crept  through  the  matted  grass — a  crystal  flood,  > 

By  which — an  alabaster  fountain  stood  ;  J 

And  on  the  margent  of  the  fount  was  laid — 

Attended  by  her  slaves — a  sleeping  maid  ; 

Like  Dian  and  her  nymphs — when,  tir'd  with  sport 

To  rest  by  cool  Eurotas  they  resort. — 

The  dame  herself — the  goddess  well  express'd 

Not  more  distinguished  by  her  purple  vest — 

Than  by  the  charming  features  of  the  face — 

And  e'en  in  slumber — a  superior  grace  : 

Her  comely  limbs — compos'd  with  decent  care 

Her  body  shaded — by  a  light  cymarr, 

Her  bosom  to  the  view — was  only  bare ; 

Where  two  beginning  paps  were  scarcely  spied — 

For  yet  their  places  were  but  signified. — 

The  fanning  wind  upon  her  bosom  blows — 

To  meet  the  fanning  wind — the  bosom  rose  ; 

The  fanning  wind — and  purling  stream — continue  her  repose 


] 


For  a  further  variety  take,  from  the  same  author's  Theodore 
and  Honoria,  a  passage  in  which  the  couplets  are  run  one  into 
the  other,  and  all  of  it  modulated,  like  the  former,  according  to 
the  feeling  demanded  by  the  occasion ; 

Whilst  listening  to  the  murmuring  leaves  he  stood — 
More  than  a  mile  immers'd  within  the  wood — 
At  once  the  wind  was  laid.) — The  whispering  sound 
Was  dumb.  I — A  rising  earthquake  rock'd  the  ground. 
With  deeper  brown  the  grove  was  overspread- 
A  sudden  horror  seiz'd  his  giddy  head — 
And  his  ears  tinkled — and  his  color  fled. 

Nature  was  in  alarm — Some  danger  nigh 
Seem'd  threaten' d — though  unseen  to  mortal  eye. 
Unus'd  to  fear — he  summon'd  all  his  soul, 
And  stood  collected  in  himself — and  whole  : 
Not  long.— 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  37 


But  for  a  crowning  specimen  of  variety  of  pause  and  accent, 
apart  from  emotion,  nothing  can  surpass  the  account,  in  Para- 
dise Lost,  of  the  Devil's  search  for  an  accomplice  ; — 

There  was  a  place, 
N6w  not — though  Sin — not  Time — first  wrought  the  change, 
Where  Tigris — at  the  foot  of  Paradise, 
Into  a  gulf — shot  under  ground — till  part 
Rose  up  a  foiintain  by  the  Tree  of  Life. 
In  with  the  river  sunk — and  with  it  rbse 
Satan — involv'd  in  rising  mist — then  sought 
Where  to  lie  hid. — Sea  he  had  search'd — and  land 
From  Eden  over  Pontus — and  the  pool 
Maeotis — up  beyond  the  river  Ob  ; 
Downward  as  far  antarctic ; — and  in  length 
West  from  Orontes — to  the  ocean  barr'd 
At  Darien — thence  to  the  land  where  flows 
Ganges  and  Indus. — Thiis  the  orb  he  roam'd 
With  narrow  search; — and  with  inspection  deep 
Consider'd  every  creature — which  of  all 
Most  opportvine  might  serve  his  wiles — and  foiind 
The  serpent — subtlest  beast  of  all  the  field. 

If  the  reader  cast  his  eye  again  over  this  passage,  he  will  not 
find  a  verse  in  it  which  is  not  varied  and  harmonized  in  the  most 
remarkable  manner.  Let  him  notice  in  particular  that  curious 
balancing  of  the  lines  in  the  sixth  and  tenth  verses  : — 

In  with  the  river  sunk,  &c., 

and 

Up  beyond  the  river  Oh, 

It  might,  indeed,  be  objected  to  the  versification  of  Milton, 
that  it  exhibits  too  constant  a  perfection  of  this  kind.  It  some- 
times forces  upon  us  too  great  a  sense  of  consciousness  on  the 
part  of  the  composer.  We  miss  the  first  sprightly  runnings  of 
verse, — ^the  ease  and  sweetness  of  spontaneity.  JMilton,  I  think, 
also  too  often  condenses  weight  into  heaviness. 

Thus  'much  concerning  the  chief  of  our  two  most  popular 
measures.     The  other,  called  octosyllabic,  or  the  measure  of 


38  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

eight  syllables,  offered  such  facilities  for  namby.jjamby,  that  it 
had  become  a  jest  as  early  as  the  time  of  Shakspeare,  who 
makes  Touchstone  call  it  the  "  butterwoman's  rate  to  market," 
and  the  "  very  false  gallop  of  verses."  It  has  been  advocated, 
in  opposition  to  the  heroic  measure,  upon  the  ground  that  ten 
syllables  lead  a  man  into  epithets  and  other  superfluities,  while 
eight  syllables  compress  him  into  a  sensible  and  pithy  gentle- 
man. But  the  heroic  measure  laughs  at  it.  So  far  from  com- 
pressing, it  converts  one  line  into  two,  and  sacrifices  everything 
to  the  quick  and  importunate  return  of  the  rhyme.  With  Dry- 
den,  compare  Gay,  even  in  the  strength  of  Gay, — 

The  wind  was  high — the  window  shakes ; 
With  sudden  start  the  miser  wakes  ; 
Along  the  silent  room  he  stalks, 

(A  miser  never  "stalks;"  but  a  rhyme  was  desired  for 
"walks") 

Looks  back,  and  trembles  as  he  walks  : 
Each  lock  and  every  bolt  he  tries, 
In  every  creek  and  corner  pries. 
Then  opes  the  chest  with  treasure  stor'd, 
And  stands  in  rapture  o'er  his  hoard; 

("Hoard"  and  "treasure  stor'd"  are  just  made  for  one 
another) 

But  now,  with  sudden  qualms  possess'd. 
He  wrings  his  hands,  he  beats  his  breast ; 
By  conscience  stung,  he  wildly  stares, 
And  thus  his  guilty  soul  declares. 

And  so  he  denounces  his  gold,  as  miser  never  denounced  it ; 
and  sighs,  because 

Virtue  resides  on  earth  no  more  ! 

Coleridge  saw  the  mistake  which  had  been  made  with  regard 
to  this  measure,  and  restored  it  to  the  beautiful  freedom  of  which 
it  was  capable,  by  calling  to  mind  the  liberties  allowed  its  old 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  39 


musical  professors  the  minstrels,  and  dividing  it  by  time  instead 
of  syllables  ; — by  the  heat  of  foitr  into  which  you  might  get  as 
many  syllables  as  you  could,  instead  of  allotting  eight  syllables 
to  the  poor  time,  whatever  it  might  have  to  say.  He  varied  it 
further  with  alternate  rhymes  and  stanzas,  with  rests  and  omis- 
sions precisely  analogous  to  those  in  music,  and  rendered  it  alto- 
gether worthy  to  utter  the  manifold  thoughts  and  feelings  of 
himself  and  his  lady  Christabel.  He  even  ventures,  with  an 
exquisite  sense  of  solemn  strangeness  and  license  (for  there  is 
witchcraft  going  forward),  to  introduce  a  couplet  of  blank  verse, 
itself  as  mystically  and  beautifully  modulated  as  anything  in 
the  music  of  Gluck  or  Weber. 

'Tis  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle  clock, 

And  the  owls  have  awaken'd  the  crowing  cock ; 

Tu-whit !— Tu-whoo  ! 

And  hark,  again  !  the  crowing  cock. 

How  drowsily  he  crew. 

Sir  Leoline,  the  baron  rich, 

Hath  a  toothless  mastiff  bitch  ; 

From  her  kennel  beneath  the  rock 

She  maketh  answer  to  the  clock 

Fdur  fOr  thS  qiiartSrs  Snd  twelve  fOr  thi  hoilr , 

Ever  and  aye,  by  shine  and  shower. 

Sixteen  short  howls,  not  over  loud : 

Some  say,  she  sees  my  lady's  shroud. 

Is  the  night  chilly  and  dark  ! 
Thp  night  is  chilly,  but  ndt  dark. 
The  thin  grey  cloud  is  spread  on  high. 
It  covers,  but  not  hides,  the  sky. 
The  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the  full. 
And  yet  she  looks  both  small  and  dull. 
The  night  is  chilly,  the  cloud  is  grey  ; 

(These  are  not  superfluities,  but  mysterious  returns  of  im- 
portunate feeling)  ^ 

Tis  a  month  before  the  month  of  May, 
And  the  spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel, 
Whom  her  father  loves  so  well. 
What  makes  her  in  the  wood  so  late, 
A  furlong  froiu  the  castle-gate  ? 


40  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

She  had  dreams  all  yesternight 

Of  her  own  betrothed  knight; 

And  she  in  the  midnight  wood  will  pray 

For  the  weal  of  her  lover  that's  far  away. 

She  stole  along,  she  nothing  spoke, 
The  sighs  she  heav'd  were  soft  and  low 
And  naught  was  green  upon  the  oak, 
But  moss  and  rarest  misletoe  ; 
She  kneels  beneath  the  huge  oak  tree. 
And  in  silence  prayeth  she. 

The  lady  sprang  up  suddenly. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel ! 

It  moan'd  as  near  as  near  can  be. 

But  what  it  is,  she  cannot  tell. 

On  the  other  side  it  seems  to  be 

Of  the  hiige,  broad-breasted,  old  oak  tree 

The  night  is  chill,  the  forest  bare  ; 
Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak ' 

(This  "  bleak  moaning  "  is  a  witch's) 

There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 
To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl 
From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek — 
There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 
The  bne  red  leaf,  the  last  df  its  clan. 
That  dancSs  as  bftSn  as  dance  it  can. 
Hanging  sd  light  and  hanging  sd  high, 
On  thS  tbpmost  twig  th&t  lodks  up  &t  thi  sky 

Hush,  beating  heart  of  Christabel ! 
Jesu  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 
She  folded  her  arms  beneath  her  cloak. 
And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 
What  sees  she  there  ? 


'Hi', 


There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright. 
Dressed  in  a  robe  of  silken  white, 
That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone  : 
The  neck  that  made  that  white  robe  wan. 
Her  stately  neck  and  arms  were  bare  : 
Her  blue-vein'd  feet  unsandall'd  were ; 
And  wildly  glitter'd,  here  and  there. 
The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair. 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  41 

I  guess  'twas  frightful  there  to  see 
£  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she — 
Beautiful  exceedingly. 

The  principle  of  Variety  in  Uniformity  is  here  worked_put  iif 
a  style  "beyond  the  reach  of  art."     Every  thing  is  diversjfied     I 
according  to  the  demand  of  the   moment,  of  the  sounds,   the     I 
sights,  the  emotions  ;  the  very  uniformity  of  the^oiitline  is  gently    ; 
varied ;  and  yet  we  feel  that  the  whole  is  one  and  of  the  same    j 
character,  the  single  and  sweet  unconsciousness  of  the  heroine    | 
making  all  the  rest  seem  more  conscious,  and  ghastly,  and  ex-  .^^ 
pectant.     It  is  thus  that  versification  itself  becomes  part  of  the 
sentiment  of  a  poem,  and  vindicates  the  pains  that  have  been 
taken  to  show  its  importance.     I  know  of  no  very  fine  versifica- 
tion unaccompanied  with  fine  poetry  ;  no  poetry  of  a  mean  order 
accompanied  with  verse  of  the  highest. 

As  to  Rhyme,  which  might   be  thought  too  insignificant  to  ) 
mention,  it  is  not  at  all  so.     The  universal  consent  of  modern 
Europe,  and  of  the  East  in  all  ages,  has  made  it  one  of  the  mu- 
sical beauties  of  verse  for  all  poetry  but  epic  and  dramatic,  and 
even  for  the  former  with  Southern  Europe, — a  sustainment  for 
the  enthusiasm,  and  a  demand  to  enjoy.     The  mastery  of  it  conr"^/ 
sists  in  never  writing  it  for  its  own  sake,  or  at  least  never  ap-  j 
pearing  to  do  so ;  in  knowing  how  to  vary  it,  to  give  it  novelty,  \ 
to  render  it  more  or  less  strong,  to  divide  it  (when  not  in  coup- 
lets)  at  the  proper  intervals,  to  repeat  it  many  times  where  lux- 
ury or  animal  spirits  demand  it  (see  an  instance  in  Titania's 
speech  to  the  Fairies),  to  impress  an  affecting  or  startling  remark 
with  it,  and  to  make  it,  in  comic  poetry,  a  new  and  surprising 
addition  to  the  jest. 

Large  was  his  bounty  and  his  soul  sincere, 

Heav'n  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send ; 
He  gave  to  misery  all  he  had,  a  tear  ; 

He  gain'd  from  heav'n  ('twas  all  he  wish'd)  a  friend. 

Gray's' Elegy. 

The  fops  are  proud  of  scandal ;  for  they  cry 
At  every  lewd,  low  character,  "  That's  /" 

Dryden's  Prologue  to  the  Pilgnm 


42  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

What  makes  all  doctrines  plain  and  clear  ? 
About  two  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
And  that  which  was  proved  true  before, 
Prove  false  again  ?     Two  hundred  more. 


Hvdibras. 


Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclined  to. 
By  damning  those  they  have  no  mind  to. 


Stor'd  with  deletery  med'cines. 

Which  whosoever  took  is  dead  since. 


Id. 


Sometimes  it  is  a  grace  in  a  master  like  But/er  to  force  his 
rhyme,  thus  showing  a  laughing  wilful  power  over  the  most 
stubborn  materials : — 

Win 
The  women,  and  make  them  draw  in 
The  men,  as  Indians  with  ?.  female 
Tame  elephant  inveigle  the  male. 

Hudibraa. 

He  made  an  instrument  to  know 

If  the  moon  shines  at  full  or  no  ; 

That  would,  as  soon  as  e'er  she  shone,  straight 

Whether  'twere  day  or  night  demonstrate  ; 

Tell  what  her  diameter  to  an  inch  is. 

And  prove  that  she's  not  made  of  green  cheese. 

Id, 

Pronounce  it,  by  all  means,  grinches,  to  make  the  joke  more 
wilful.  The  happiest  triple  rhyme,  perhaps,  that  ever  was 
written,  is  in  Don  Juan  : — 

But  oh  !   ye  lords  of  ladies  intellectual. 

Inform  us  truly, — haven't  they  hen-pecked  you  all  7 

The  sweepingness  of  the  assumption  completes  the  flowing 
breadth  of  effect. 

Dryden  confessed  that  a  rhyme  often  gave  him  a  thought. 
Probably  the  happy  word  "  sprung,"  in  the  following  passage 
from  Ben  Jonson,  was  suggested  by  it ;  but  then  the  poet  must 
have  had  the  feeling  in  him. 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  43 


—  Let  our  trumpets  sound. 
And  cleave  both  air  and  ground 
With  beating  of  our  drums. 

Let  every  lyre  be  strung, 
Harp,  lute,  theorbo,  sprung 
With  touch  of  dainty  thumbs. 

Boileau's  trick  for  appearing  to  rhyme  naturally  was  to  com- 
pose the  second  line  of  his  couplet  first !  which  gives  one  the 
crowning  idea  of  the  "  artificial  school  of  poetry."  Perhaps 
the  most  perfect  master  of  rhyme,  the  easiest  and  most  abundant, 
was  the  greatest  writer  of  comedy  that  the  world  has  seen, — 
Moliere. 

If  a.  young  reader  should  ask,  after  all,  What  is  the  quickest^ 
way  of  knowing  bad  poets  from  good,  the  best  poets  from  the 
next  best,  and  so  on  1  the  answer  is,  the  only  and  two-fold  way  ; 
first,  the  perusal  of  the  best  poets  with  J^he  _£reatest_^,tjtenti^^ 
and,  second,  the  cultivation  of  that  love  of  truth  andbeauty 
wKich  made  them  what  they  are.  Every  true  reader  of  poetry 
partakes  a  more  than  ordinary  portion  of  the  poetic  nature  ;  and 
no  one  can  be  completely  such,  who  does  not  love,  or  take  an 
interest  in,  everything  that  interests  the  poet,  from  the  firmament 
to  the  daisy, — from  the  highest  heart  of  man  to  the  most  pitiable 
of  the  low.  It  is  a  good  practice  to  read  with  pen  in  hand, 
marking  what  is  liked  or  doubted.  It  rivets  the  attention,  re- 
alizes the  greatest  amount  of  enjoyment,  and  facilitates  refer- 
ence. It  enables  the  reader  also,  from  time  to  time,  to  see  what 
progress  he  makes  with  his  own  mind,  and  how  it  grows  up 
towards  the  stature  of  its  exalter. 

If  the.saiiie__person  should  ask,  What  class  of  poetry  is  the 
highest  ?  ,1  shouT3~say7iihdoul)te"dIy,  the^JKpic  ;  forlt  includes 
the  drama,  with  narration  besides  ;  or  the  ^peaking  and  action 
of  the  characters,  with  the  speaking  of  the  poet  himself,  whose 
utmost  JCdHressis  taxed  to  relate  all  well  for  so  long  a  time,  par- 
ticularly in  the  passages  least  sustainedlBy  enthusiasm.  Whether 
this  class  has  included  the  greatesTpbet,  is  another  question  still 
under  trial ;  for  Shakspeare  perplexes  all  such  verdicts,  even 
when  the  claimant  is  Homer ;  though,  if  a  judgment  may  be 
drawn  from  his  early  narratives  (Venus  and  Adonis,  and  the 


44  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

Rape  of  Lucrece),  it  is  to  be  doubted  whether  even  Shakspeare 
could  have  told  a  story  like  Homer,  owing  to  that  incessant  ac- 
tivity and  superfoetation  of  thought,  a  little  less  of  which  might 
be  occasionally  desired  even  in  his  plays  ; — if  it  were  possible, 
once  possessing  anything  of  his,  to  wish  it  away.  Next  to 
Homer  and  Shakspeare  c^me  such  narrators  as  the  less  univer-^ 
sal,  but  stillmten^er_Bfliltsj  Milton,  vvith  his  dignified  imagina- 
tionj_J^he  universal,  profoundly  simple  Chaucer  ;  and  luxuriant, 
remote's pense;* — immortal  child  in  poetry  s  most  poetic  solitudes  : 
then  the  great  second-rate  dramatists  ;  unless  those  who  are 
better  acquainted  with  Greek  tragedy  than  I  am,  demand  a  place 
for  them  before  Chaucer :  then  the  airy  yet  robust  universality 
of  Ariosto ;  the  hearty,  out-of-door  nature  of  Theocritus,  also  a 
universalist ;  the  finest  lyrical  poets  (who  only  take  short  flights, 
compared  with  the  narrators)  ;  the  purely  contemplative  poets 
who  have  more  thought  than  feeling ;  the  descriptive,  satirical, 
didactic,  epigrammatic.  It  is  to  be  borne  in  mind,  however, 
that  the  first  poet  of  an  inferior  class  may  be  superior  to  follow- 
ers in  the  train  of  a  higher  one,  though  the  superiority  is  by  no 
means  to  be  taken  for  granted  ;  otherwise  Pope  would  be  supe- 
rior to  Fletcher,  and  Butler  to  Pope.  Imagination,  teeming;  wjth 
action  and  character,  makes  the  greatest  poets  ;  feeling  _aiid 
thought  the  next ;  fancy  (by  itself)  the  next ;  wit  the  last. 
Thought  by  itself  makes  no  poet  at  all  ;  for  the  mere  conclu- 
sions of  the  und.£Xstandino;jEaa^t  best  be  only  so  many  intellec- 
tu^l  matters  of  fact.  Feeling,  even  destitute  of  conscious 
thought,  stands_a  far  better  poetical  chance  ;  feeling  being  a  sort 
of  thought  without  the  process  of  thinking, — a  grasper  of  the 

^ truth  without  seeing  it.     And  what  is  very  remarkable,  feeling 

^dom  makes  the  blunders  that  thought  does.  An  idle  distinc- 
tion has  been  made  between  taste  and  judgment.  Taste  is  the 
very  maker  of  judgment.  Put  an  artificial  fruit  in  your  mouth, 
or  only  handle  it,  and  you  will  soon  perceive  the  difference  be- 
tween judging  from  taste  or  tact,  and  judging  from  the  abstract 
figment  called  judgment.  The  latter  does  but  throw  you  into 
guesses  and  doubts.  Hence  the  conceits  that  astonish  us  in  the 
gravest,  and  even  subtlest  thinkers,  whose  taste  is  not  propor- 
tionate to  their  mental  perceptions ;  men  like  Donne,  for  instance ; 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  45 


who,  apart  from  accidental  personal  impressions,  seem  to  look  at 
nothing  as  it  really  is,  but  only  as  to  what  may  be  thought  of  it. 
Hence,  on  the  other  hand,  the  delightfulness  of  those  poets  who 
never  violate  truth  of  feeling,  whether  in  things  real  or  imagi- 
nary ;  who  are  always  consistent  with  their  object  and  its  re- 
quirements ;  and  who  run  the  great  round  of  nature,  not  to 
perplex  and  be  perplexed,  but  to  make  themselves  and  us  happy. 
And  luckily,  delightfulness  is  not  incompatible  with  greatness, 
willing  soever  as  men  may  be  in  their  present  imperfect  state  to 
set  the  power  to  subjugate  above  the  power  to  please.  Truth, 
of  any  great  kind  whatsoever,  makes  great  writing.  This  is 
the  reason  why  such  poets  as  Ariosto,  though  not  writing  with  a 
constant  detail  of  thought  and  feeling  like  Dante,  are  justly 
considered  great  as  well  as  delightful.  Their  greatness  proves 
itself  by  the  same  truth  of  nature,  and  sustained  power, 
though  in  a  different  way.  Their  action  is  not  so  crowded 
and  weighty ;  their  sphere  has  more  territories  less  fertile ; 
but  it  has  enchantments  of  its  own,  which  excess  of  thought 
would  spoil, — luxuries,  laughing  graces,  animal  spirits ; 
and  not  to  recognize  the  beauty  and  greatness  of  these,  treated 
as  they  treat  them,  is  simply  to  be  defective  in  sympathy.  Ev- 
ery planet  is  not  Mars  or  Saturn.  There  is  also  Venus  and 
Mercury.  There  is  one  genius  of  the  south,  and  another  of  the 
north,  and  others  uniting  both.  The  reader  who  is  too  thought- 
less or  too  sensitive  to  like  intensity  of  any  sort,  and  he  who  is 
too  thoughtful  or  too  dull  to  like  anything  but  the  greatest  possi- 
ble stimulus  of  reflection  or  passion,  are  equally  wanting  in 
complexional  fitness  for  a  thorough  enjoyment  of  books.  Ari- 
osto occasionally  says  as  fine  things  as  Dante,  and  Spenser  as 
Shakspeare  ;  but  the  business  of  both  is  to  enjoy  ;  and  in  order 
to  partake  their  enjoyment  to  its  full  extent,  you  must  feel  what 
poetry  is  in  the  general  as  well  as  the  particular,  must  be  aware 
that  there  are  different  songs  of  the  spheres,  some  fuller  of  notes, 
and  others  of  a  sustained  delight ;  and  as  the  former  keep  you 
perpetually  alive  to  thought  or  passion,  so  from  the  latter  you 
receive  a  constant  harmonious  sense  of  truth  and  beauty,  more 
agreeable  perhaps  on  the  whole,  though  less  exciting.  Ariosto, 
for  instance,  does  not  tell  a  story  with  the  brevity  and  concen- 


46  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

trated  passion  of  Dante  ;  every  sentence  is  not  so  full  of  matter, 
nor  the  style  so  removed  from  the  indifference  of  prose  ;  yet  you 
are  charmed  with  a  truth  of  another  sort,  equally  characteristic 
of  the  writer,  equally  drawn  from  nature,  and  substituting  a 
healthy  sense  of  enjoyment  for  intenser  emotion.  Exclusiveness 
of  liking  for  this  or  that  mode  of  truth,  only  shows,  either  that  a 
reader's  perceptions  are  limited,  or  that  he  would  sacrifice 
truth  itself  to  his  favorite  form  of  it.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  who 
was  as  tranchant  with  his  pen  as  his  sword,  hailed  the  Faerie 
Queene  of  his  friend  Spenser  in  verses  in  which  he  said  that 
"  Petrarch"  was  thenceforward  to  be  no  more  heard  of ;  and 
that  in  all  English  poetry,  there  was  nothing  he  counted  "  of  any 
price"  but  the  effusions  of  the  new  author.  Yet  Petrarch  is  still 
living  ;  Chaucer  was  not  abolished  by  Sir  Walter ;  and  Shaks- 
peare  is  thought  somewhat  valuable.  A  botanist  might  as  well 
have  said,  that  myrtles  and  oaks  were  to  disappear,  because 
acacias  had  come  up.  It  is  with  the  poet's  creations,  as  with 
nature's,  great  or  small.  Wherever  truth  and  beauty,  whatever 
their  amount,  can  be  worthily  shaped  into  verse,  and  answer  to 
some  demand  for  it  in  our  hearts,  there  poetry  is  to  be  found ; 
whether  in  productions  grand  and  beautiful  as  some  great 
event,  or  some  mighty,  leafy  solitude,  or  no  bigger  and  more 
pretending  than  a  sweet  face  or  a  bunch  of  violets ;  whether  in 
Homer's  epic  or  Gray's  Elegy,  in  the  enchanted  gardens  of 
Ariosto  and  Spenser,  or  the  very  pot-herbs  of  the  Schoolmistress 
of  Shenstone,  the  balms  of  the  simplicity  of  a  cottage.  Not  to 
know  and  feel  this,  is  to  be  deficient  in  the  universality  of  Na- 
ture herself,  who  is  a  poetess  on  the  smallest  as  well  as  the 
largest  scale,  and  who  calls  upon  us  to  admire  all  her  produc- 
,tions  :  not  indeed  with  the  same  degree  of  admiration,  but  with 
no  refusal  of  it,  except  to  defect. 

I  cannot  draw  this  essay  towards  its  conclusion  better  than 
with  three  memorable  words^ofjliltonjjvho  has  said,  that  poetry, 
in  comparison  with  science,  is  "  simple,  sensuous,  and  passion- 
ate." By  simple,  he  means  unperplexedjjid  self-evident ;  by 
sensuous,  j^enial  and  full  of  imagery  ;  by.  passionatg,  excited 
and  pnthnsiaifjtic.  I  am  aware  that  different  constructions  have 
been  put  on  some  of  these  words  ;  but  the  context  seems  to  me 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  47 


Ko  necessitate  those  before  us.  I  quote,  however,  not  from  the 
original,  but  from  an  extract  in  the  Remarks  on  Paradise  Lost 
by  Richardson. 

What  ike  poet  has  to  cultivate  above  all  things  is  love  and  ^'~' 
truth  ; — what  he  has  to  avoid,  like  poison,  is  the  fleeting  and  the    / 
false.     He  will  get  no  good  by  proposing  to  be  "  in  earnest  at  | 
the  moment."     His  eaxiiaatll^as^niust  be  innate  and  habit.naJ ;  j 
born  with  him,  and  felt  to  be  his  most  precious  inheritance.     "  I 
expect  neither  profit  nor  general  fame  by  my  writings,"  says 
Coleridge,  in  the  Preface  to  his  Poems  ;   "  and  I  consider  my- 
self as  having  been  amply  repaid  without,  either.     Poetry  has 
been  to  me  its  '  own  exceeding  greai  reward ;'  it  has  soothed  my 
afflictions  ;  it  has  multiplied  and  refined  my  enjoyments ;  it  has 
endeared  solitude  ;  and  it  has  given  me  the  habit  of  wishing  to 
discover  the  good  and  the   beautiful  in  all  that  meets  and  sur- 
rounds me." — Pickering^s  edition,  p.  10. 

"  Poetry,"   saysShelley,  "  lifts    the    veil   from   the   hidden  j 
beauty  of  the  world,  and  makes  familiar  ohjects  be  as  if  they  \ 

were  not  familiar. Tt.  repro"duces  all  that  it  represents;  and  the 

impersonations  clothed  in  its  Elysian  light  stand  thenceforward 
in  the  minds  of  those  who  have  once  contemplated  them,  as  me- 
morials of  that  gentle  and  exalted  content  which  extends  itself 
over  all  thoughts  and  actions  with  which   it  co-exists.      The 
great  secret  of  morals  is  love,  or  a  going  out  of  our  own  nature, 
and  an  identification  of  ourselves  with  the  beautiful  which  ex- 
ists in  thought,  action,  or  person,  not  our  own.     A  man,  to  be  "" 
greatly  good,  must  imagine  intensely  and  comprehensively  ;  he 
must  put  himself  in  the  place  of  another,  and  of  many  others : 
the   pains  and  pleasures  of  his  species  must  become  his  own. 
The  great  instrument  of  moral  good  is  imagination  ;  and  poetry  , 
administers  to  the  effect  by  acting  upon   the  cause." — Essays^ 
and  Letters,  vol  i.,  p.  16. 

I  would  not  willingly  say  anything  after  perorations  like 
these ;  but  as  treatises  on  poetry  may  chance  to  have  auditors 
who  think  themselves  called  upon  to  vindicate  the  superiority  of 
what  is  termed  useful  knowledge,  it  may  be  as  well  to  add,  that 
if  the  poet  may  be  allowed  to  pique  himself  on  any  one  thing 
more  than  another,  compared  with  those  who  undervalue  him, 


4S        AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION  WHAT  IS  POETRY  ? 

it  is  on  that  power  of  undervaluing  nobody,  and  no  attainments 
different  from  his  own,  which  is  given  him  by  the  very  faculty 
of  imagination  they  despise.  The  greater  includes  the  less. 
They  do  not  see  that  their  inability  to  comprehend  him  argues 
the  smaller  capacity.  No  man  recognizes  the  worth  of  utility 
more  than  the  poet :  he  only  desires  that  the  meaning  of  the 
term  may  not  come  short  of  its  greatness,  and  exclude  the  no- 
blest necessities  of  his  fellow-creatures.  He  is  quite  as  much 
pleased,  for  instance,  with  the  facilities  for  rapid  conveyance 
afforded  him  by  the  railroad,  as  the  dullest  confiner  of  its  ad- 
vantages to  that  single  idea,  or  as  the  greatest  two-idead  man 
who  varies  that  single  idea  with  hugging  himself  on  his  "  but- 
tons "  or  his  good  dinner.  But  he  sees  also  the  beauty  of  the 
country  through  which  he  passes,  of  the  towns,  of  the  heavens, 
of  the  steam-engine  itself,  thundering  and  fuming  along  like  a 
magic  horse,  of  the  affections  that  are  carrying,  perhaps,  halt 
the  passengers  on  their  journey,  nay,  of  those  of  the  great  two- 
idead  man ;  and,  beyond  all  this,  he  discerns  the  incalculable 
amount  of  good,  and  knowledge,  and  refinement,  and  mutual 
consideration,  which  this  wonderful  invention  is  fitted  to  circu- 
late over  the  globe,  perhaps  to  the  displacement  of  war  itself, 
and  certainly  to  the  diffusion  of  millions  of  enjoyments. 

"  And  a  button-maker,  after  all,  invented  it !"  cries  our 
friend. 

Pardon  me — it  was  a  nobleman.  A  button-maker  may  be  a 
very  excellent,  and  a  very  poetical  man,  too,  and  yet  not  have 
been  the  first  man  visited  by  a  sense  of  the  gigantic  powers  of 
the  combination  of  water  and  fire.  It  was  a  nobleman  who  first 
thought  of  this  most  poetical  bit  of  science.  It  was  a  nobleman 
who  first  thought  of  it, — a  captain  who  first  tried  it, — and  a  but- 
ton-maker who  perfected  it.  And  he  who  put  the  nobleman  on 
such  thoughts,  was  the  great  philosopher.  Bacon,  who  said  that 
poetry  had  "  something^ivine  jgjt,"  and  was  necessary  to  the 
satisfaction  of  the  human  mind. 


SPENSER.  49 


SPENSER, 

BORN,  PROBABLY,  ABOUT  THE  YEAR  1553- 
DIED,  1598. 


Three  things  must  be  conceded  to  the  objectors  against  this 
divine  poet ;  first,  that  he  wrote  a  good  deal  of  allegory  ;  second, 
that  he  has  a  great  many  superfluous  words  ;  third,  that  he  was 
very  fond  of  alliteration.  He  is  accused  also  (by  little  boys)  of 
obsolete  words  and  spelling ;  and  it  must  be  added,  that  he  often 
forces  his  rhymes  ;  nay,  spells  them  in  an  arbitrary  manner  on 
purpose  to  make  them  fit.  In  short,  he  has  a  variety  of  faults, 
real  or  supposed,  that  would  be  intolerable  in  writers  in  general. 
This  is  true.  The  answer  is,  that  his  genius  not  only  makes 
amends  for  all,  but  overlays  them,  and  makes  them  beautiful, 
with  "  riches  fineless."  When  acquaintance  with  him  is  once 
begun,  he  repels  none  but  the  anti-poetical.  Others  may  not  be 
able  to  read  him  continuously  ;  but  more  or  less,  and  as  an 
enchanted  stream  "  to  dip  into,"  they  will  read  him  always. 

In  Spenser's  time,  orthography  was  unsettled.  Pronunciation 
is  always  so.  The  great  poet,  therefore,  sometimes  spells  his 
words,  whether  rhymed  or  otherwise,  in  a  manner  apparently 
arbitrary,  for  the  purpose  of  inducing  the  reader  to  give  them  the 
sound  fittest  for  the  sense.  Alliteration,  which,  as  a  ground  of 
melody,  had  been  a  principle  in  Anglo-Saxon  verse,  continued 
such  a  favorite  with  old  English  poets  whom  Spenser  loved,  that, 
as  late  as  the  reign  of  Edward  the  Third,  it  stood  in  the  place 
of  rhyme  itself.  Qur  author  turns  it  to  beautiful  account. 
Superfluousness,  though  eschewed  with  a  fine  instinct  by  Chau- 
cer in  some  of  his  latest  works,  where  the  narrative  was  fullest 
of  action  and  character,  abounded  in  his  others  j  and,  in  spite  of 
5 


50  SPENSER. 


the  classics,  it  had  not  been  recognized  as  a  fault  in  Spenser's 
time,  when  books  were  still  rare,  and  a  writer  thought  himself 
bound  to  pour  out  all  he  felt  and  knew.  It  accorded  also  with 
his  genius  ;  and  in  him  is  not  an  excess  of  weakness,  but  of  will 
and  luxury.  And  as  to  allegory,  it  was  not  only  the  taste  of 
the  day,  originating  in  gorgeous  pageants  of  church  and  state, 
but  in  Spenser's  hands  it  became  such  an  embodiment  of  poetry 
itself,  that  its  objectors  really  deserve  no  better  answer  than  has 
been  given  them  by  Mr.  Hazlitt,  who  asks,  if  they  thought  the 
allegory  would  "bite  them."  The  passage  will  be  found  a 
little  further  on. 

Spenser's  great  characteristic  is  poetic  luxury.  If  you  goto 
him  for  a  story,  you  will  be  disappointed  ;  if  for  a  style,  clas- 
sical or  concise,  the  point  against  him  is  conceded;  if  for  pathos, 
you  must  weep  for  personages  half-real  and  too  beautiful ;  if  for 
mirth,  you  must  laugh  out  of  good  breeding,  and  because  it 
pleaseth  the  great,  sequestered  man,  to  be  facetious.  But  if  you 
love  poetry  well  enough  to  enjoy  it  for  its  own  sake,  let  no  evil 
reports  of  its  "  allegory"  deter  you  from  his  acquaintance,  for 
great  will  be  your  loss.  His  allegory  itself  is  but  one  part 
allegory,  and  nine  parts  beauty  and  enjoyment ;  sometimes  an 
excess  of  flesh  and  blood.  His  forced  rhymes,  and  his  sentences 
written  to  fill  up,  which  in  a  less  poet  would  be  intolerable,  are 
accompanied  with  such  endless  grace  and  dreaming  pleasure, 
fit  to 

.  -      Make  heaven  drowsy  with  the  harmony, 

that  although  it  is  to  be  no  more  expected  of  anybody  to  read 
him  through  at  once,  than  to  wander  days  and  nights  in  a  forest, 
thinking  of  nothing  else,  yet  any  true  lover  of  poetry,  when  he 
comes  to  know  him,  would  as  soon  quarrel  with  repose  on  the 
summer  grass.  You  may  get  up  and  go  away,  but  will  return 
next  day  at  noon  to  listen  to  his  waterfalls,  and  to  see,  "  with 
half-shut  eye,"  his  visions  of  knights  and  r^ymphs,  his  gods  and 
goddesses,  whom  *  <3  brought  down  to  earth  in  immortal  beauty. 
Spenser,  in  sf  le  respects,  is  more  southern  than  the  south 
itself.     Dante.   ?ut  for  the  covered  heat  which  occasionally  con- 


SPENSER.  51 


centrales  the  utmost  sweetness  as  well  as  venom,  would  be  quite 
nerthern  compared  with  him.  He  is  more  luxurious  than  ArK 
osto  or  Tasso,  more  haunted  with  the  presence  of" beauty.  His 
wholesale  poetical  belief,  mixing  up  all  creeds  and  mythologies, 
but  with  less  violence,  resembles  that  of  Dante  and  Boccaccio ; 
and  it  gives  the  compound  the  better  warrant  in  the  more  agree- 
able impression.  Then  his  versification  is  almost  perpetual 
honey. 

Spenser  is  the  farthest  removed  from  the  ordinary  cares  and 
haunts  of  the  world  of  all  the  poets  that  ever  wrote,  except  perhaps 
Ovid ;  and  this,  which  is  the  reason  why  mere  men  of  business  and 
the  world  do  not  like  him,  constitutes  his  most  bewitching  charm 
with  the  poetical.  lie  is  not  so  great  a  poet  as  Shakspeare  or 
Dante ; — he  has  less  imagination,  though  more  fancy,  than  Mil- 
ton. He  does  not  see  things  so  purely  in  their  elements  as 
Dante ;  neither  can  he  combine  their  elements  like  Shakspeare, 
nor  bring  such  frequent  intensities  of  words,  or  of  wholesale 
imaginative  sympathy,  to  bear  upon  his  subject  as  any  one  of 
them  ;  though  he  has  given  noble  diffuser  instances  of  the  latter 
in  his  Una,  and  his  Mammon,  and  his  accounts  of  Jealousy  and 
Despair. 

But  when  you  are  "  over-informed  "  with  thought  and  passion 
in  Shakspeare,  when  Milton's  mighty  grandeurs  oppress  you,  or 
are  found  mixed  with  painful  absurdities,  or  when  the  world  is 
vexatious  and  tiresome,,  and  you  have  had  enough  of  your  own 
vanities  or  struggles  in  it,  or  when  "  house  and  land  "  them- 
selves are  "gone  and  spent,"  and  your  riches  must  lie  in  the 
regions  of  the  "  unknown,"  then  Spenser  is  "  most  excellent." 
His  remoteness  from  every-day  life  is  the  reason  perhaps  why 
Somers  and  Chatham  admired  him  ;  and  his  possession  of  every 
kind  of  imaginary  wealth  completes  his  charm  with  his  brother 
poets.  Take  him  in  short  for  what  he  is,  whether  greater  or  less 
than  his  fellows,  the  poetical  faculty  is  so  abundantly  and  beau- 
tifully predominant  in  him  above  every  other,  though  he  had  pas- 
sion, and  thought,  and  plenty  of  ethics,  and  was  as  learned  a 
man  as  Ben  Jonson,  perhaps  as  Milton  himself,  that  he  has 
always  been  felt  by  his  countrymen  to  be  what  Charles  Lamb 
called  him,  the  "  Poet's  Poet."     He  has  had  more  idolatry  and 


52  SPENSER. 


imitation  from  his  brethren  than  all  the  rest  put  together.  The 
old  undramatic  poets,  Drayton,  Browne,  Drummond,  Giles  and 
Phineas  Fletcher,  were  as  full  of  him  as  the  dramatic  were  of 
Shakspeare.  Milton  studied  and  used  him,  calling  him  the 
"sage  and  serious  Spenser;"  and  adding,  that  he  "dared  be 
known  to  think  him  a  better  teacher  than  Scotus  or  Aquinas." 
Cowley  said  that  he  became  a  poet  by  reading  him.  Dryden 
claimed  him  for  a  master.  Pope  said  he  read  him  with  as  much 
pleasure  when  he  was  old,  as  young.  Collins  and  Gray  loved 
him  ;  Thomson,  Shenstone,  and  a  host  of  inferior  writers,  ex- 
pressly imitated  him ;  Burns,  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats  made 
use  of  his  stanza ;  Coleridge  eulogized  him ;  and  he  is  as  dear 
to  the  best  living  poets  as  he  was  to  their  predecessors.  Spenser 
has  stood  all  the  changes  in  critical  opinion  ;  all  the  logical  and 
formal  conclusions  of  the  understanding,  as  opposed  to  imagina- 
tion and  lasting  sympathy.  Hobbes  in  vain  attempted  to  depose 
him  in  favor  of  Davenant's  Gondibert.  Locke  and  his  friend 
Molyneux  to  no  purpose  preferred  Blackmore !  Hume,  acute 
and  encroaching  philosopher  as  he  was,  but  not  so  universal  in 
his  philosophy  as  great  poets,  hurt  Spenser's  reputation  with, 
none  but  the  French  (who  did  not  know  him) ;  and,  by  way  of 
involuntary  amends  for  the  endeavor,  he  set  up  for  poets  such 
men  as  Wilkie  and  Blacklock  !  In  vain,  in  vain.  "  In  spite  of 
philosophy  and  fashion,"  says  a  better  critic  of  that  day  (Bishop 
Hurd),  "'Faerie  Spenser'  still  ranks  highest  amongst  the 
poets ;  I  mean  with  all  those  who  are  either  of  that  house,  or 
have  any  kindness  for  it.     Earth-born  critics  may  blaspheme ; 

But  all  the  gods  are  ravish'd  with  delight 
Of  his  celestial  song  and  music's  wondrous  might." 
Remarks  on  the  Plan  and  Conduct  of  the  Faerie  Queene  {inTodd's  edition  of  Spenser,  vol. 

ii.,  p.  183). 

"  In  reading  Spenser,"  says  Warton,  "  if  the  critic  is  not 
satisfied,  yet  the  reader  is  transported."     (Id.,  p.  65.) 

"Spenser,"  observes  Coleridge,  *  has  the  wit  of  the  southern, 
with  the  deeper  inwardness  of  the  northern  genius.  Take  espe- 
cial note  of  the  marvellous  independence  and  true  imaginative 
absence  of  all  particular  space  or  time  in  the  Faerie  Queene. 


SPENSER.  53 


It  is  in  the  domains  neither  of  history  nor  geography :  it  is 
ignorant  of  all  artificial  boundary,  all  material  obstacles ;  it  is 
truly  in  land  of  Faerie,  that  is,  of  mental  space.  The  poet  has 
placed  you  in  a  dream,  a  charmed  sleep :  and  you  neither  wish 
nor  have  the  power  to  inquire,  where  you  are,  or  how  you  got 
there."     Literary  Remains,  vol.  i.,  p.  94. 

"  In  reading  the  Faerie  Queene,"  says  Hazlitt,  "  you  see  a 
little  withered  old  man  by  a  wood-side  opening  a  wicket,  a  giant, 
and  a  dwarf  lagging  far  behind,  a  damsel  in  a  boat  upon  an  en- 
chanted lake,  wood-nymphs  and  satyrs  :  and  all  of  a  sudden  you 
are  transported  into  a  lofty  palace,  with  tapers  burning,  amidst 
knights  and  ladies,  with  dance  and  revelry,  and  song, '  and  mask 
and  antique  pageantry.'— -But  some  people  will  say  that  all  this 
may  be  very  fine,  but  they  cannot  understand  it  on  account  of 
the  allegory.  They  are  afraid  of  the  allegory,  as  if  they 
thought  it  would  bite  them  ;  they  look  at  it  as  a  child  looks  at  a 
painted  dragon,  and  think  that  it  will  strangle  them  in  its  shining 
folds.  This  is  very  idle.  If  they  do  not  meddle  with  the  alle- 
gory, the  allegory  will  not  meddle  with  them.  Without  minding 
it  at  all  the  whole  is  as  plain  as  a  pike-stafF.  It  might  as  well 
be  pretended,  that  we  cannot  see  Poussin's  pictures  for  the  alle- 
gory, as  that  the  allegory  prevents  us  from  understanding 
Spenser."  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets  (Templeman's  Edi 
tion,  12mo.,  p.  67). 


54  SPENSER. 


ARCHIMAGO'S    HERMITAGE, 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MORPHEUS. 

Archimago,  a  hypocritical  magician,  lures  Una  and  the  Red-cross  Knight 
into  his  abode ;  and  while  they  are  asleep,  sends  to  Morpheus,  tlie  god  of 
sleep,  for  a  false  dream,  to  produce  discord  between  them. 

A  little  lowly  hermitage  it  was 
Down  in  a  dale,  hard  by  a  foresfs  side. 
Far  from  resort  of  people,  that  did  pass 
In  travel  to  and  fro :  a  little  wide 
There  was  a  holy  chapel  edified, 
Wherein  the  hermit  duly  wont  to  say 
His  holy  things  each  morn  and  eventide; 
Thereby  a  crystal  stream  did  gently  play 
Which  from  a  sacred  fountain  welled  forth  alwayA 

Arrived  there  the  little  house  they  fill,2 
Nor  look  for  entertainment  where  none  was  ,3 
Rest  is  their  feast,  and  all  things  at  their  will . 
The  noblest  mind  the  best  contentment  has.* 
With  fair  discourse  the  evening  so  they  pass. 
For  that  old  man  of  pleasing  words  had  store. 
And  well  could  file  his  tongue  as  smooth  as  glass  : 
He  told  of  saints  and  popes,  and  evermore 
He  strewed  an  Ave  Mary,  after  and  before. 

The  drooping  night  thus  creepeth  on  them  fast ; 

And  the  sad  humor,  loading  their  eye-lids. 

As  messenger  of  Morpheus,  on  them  cast 

Sweet  slumbering  dew ;  the  which  to  sleep  them  bids 

Unto  their  loggings  then  his  guests  he  rids  ; 

Where,  when  all  drown'd  in  deadly  sleep  he  finds. 

He  to  his  study  goes,  and  their  amids' 

His  magic  books  and  arts  of  sundry  kinds, 

He  seeks  out  mighty  charms  to  trouble  sleepy  minds. 


SPENSER.  55 


Then  choosing  out  few  words  most  horrible 
{Let  none  them  read  !)^  thereof  did  verses  frame, 
With  which,  and  other  spells  like  terrible, 
He  bad  awake  black  Pluto's  grisly  dame, 
And  cursed  Heaven ;  and  spake  reproachful  shame 
Of  highest  God,  the  Lord  of  life  and  light : 
A  bold  had  man,  that  dar'd  to  call  by  name 
Great  Gorgon,«  prince  of  darkness  and  dead  night ; 
At  which  Cocytus  quakes,  and  Styx  is  put  to  flight. 

And  forth  he  call'd  out  of  deep  darkness  dread 
Legions  of  sprites,  the  which,  like  little  flies,' 
Fluttering  about  his  ever  damned  head. 
Await  where  to  their  service  he  applies. 
To  aid  his  friends,  or  fray  his  enemies ; 
Of  those  he  chose  out  two,  the  falsest  two 
And  fittest  for  to  forge  true-seeming  lies ; 
The  one  of  them  he  gave  a  message  to. 
The  other  by  himself  staid  other  work  to  do 

He  maketh  speedy  way  through  spersed  air, 
And  through  the  world  of  waters  wide  and  deep,^ 
To  Morpheus'  house  doth  hastily  repair. — ^ 
Amid  the  bowels  of  the  earth  full  steep. 
And  low,  where  dawning  day  doth  never  peep, 
His  dwelling  is  ;  there  Tethys  his  wet  bed 
Doth  ever  wash,  and  Cynthia  still  doth  steep 
In  silver  dew  his  ever-drooping  head. 
While  sad  night  over  him  her  mantle  black  doth  spread 

Whose  double  gates  he  findeth  locked  fast ; 
The  one  fair  fram'd  of  burnish'd  ivory. 
The  other  all  with  silver  overcast ; 
And  wakeful  dogs  before  them  far  do  lie. 
Watching  to  banish  Care  their  enemy, 
Who  oft  is  wont  to  trouble  gentle  Sleep, 
By  them  the  sprite  doth  pass  in  quietly 
And  unto  Morpheus  comes,  whom  drowned  deep 
In  drowsy  fit  he  finds  ;  of  nothing  he  takes  keep. 

And  more  to  lull  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 

A  trickling  stream,  from  high  rock  tumbling  down. 

And  ever  drizzling  rain  upon  the  loft, 

Mix'd  with  a  murmuring  wind,  much  like  the  soun 

Of  swarming  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swoun  : 


56  SPENSER. 


JVo  other  noise,  nor  peoples  troublous  cries, 
As  still  are  wont  f  annoy  the  walled  town. 
Might  there  be  heard  ;  but  careless  Quiet  lies. 
Wrapt  in  eternal  silence,  far  from  enemiest^^ 

The  messenger  approaching  to  him  spake 

But  his  waste  words  return'd  to  him  in  vain 

So  sound  he  slept,  that  naught  might  him  awake. 

Then  rudely  he  him  thrust,  and  push'd  with  pain. 

Whereat  he  'gan  to  stretch  :  but  he  again 

Shook  him  so  hard,  that  forced  him  to  speak 

As  one  then  in  a  dream,  whose  drier  brain 

Is  tost  with  troubled  sights  and  fancies  weak, 

He  mumbled  soft,  but  would  not  all  his  silence  break. 

The  sprite  then  'gan  more  boldly  him  to  wake. 
And  threaten'd  unto  him  the  dreaded  name 
Of  Hecate  :  whereat  he  'gan  to  quake, 
And  lifting  up  his  lumpish  head,  with  blame 
Half  angry  ask^d  him,  for  what  he  came. 
"  Hither,"  quoth  he,  "  me  Archimago  sent : 
He  that  the  stubborn  sprites  can  wisely  tame ; 
He  bids  thee  to  him  send  for  his  intent 
A  fit  false  dream,  that  can  delude  the  sleeper's  sent."" 

The  god  obeyed ;  and  calling  forth  straightway 
A  divers  dream^^  out  of  his  prison  dark, 
Deliver'd  it  to  him,  and  down  did  lay 
His  heavy  head,  devoid  of  careful  cark  ; 
Whose  senses  all  were  straight  benumb'd  and  stark. 
He,  back  returning  by  the  ivory  door. 
Remounted  up  as  light  as  cheerful  lark  ; 
And  on  his  little  wings  the  dream  he  bore 
In  haste  unto  his  lord,  where  he  him  left  afore. 

1  WelUd  forth  alway. 

The  modulation  of  this  charming  stanza  is  exquisite.  Let 
us  divide  it  into  its  pauses,  and  see  what  we  have  been  hear- 
ing :— 


A  little  lowly  hermitage  it  was  j 
Down  in  a  dale,  |  hard  by  a  forest's  side,  | 
Far  from  resort  of  people  |  that  did  pass 
In  travel  to  and  fro :  |  a  little  wide  | 


SPENSER.  57 


There  was  a  holy  chapel  edified,  | 
Wherein  the  hermit  duly  wont  to  say 
His  holy  things  |  each  morn  and  eventide  ; 
Thereby  a  crystal  stream  did  gently  play  | 
Which  from  a  sacred  fountain  welled  forth  alway. 

Mark  the  variety  of  pauses,  of  the  accentuation  of  the  sylla- 
bles and  of  the  intonation  of  the  vowels ;  all  closing  in  that  ex- 
quisite last  line,  as  soft  and  continuous  as  the  water  it  describes. 
The  repetition  of  the  words  little  and  holy  add  to  the  sacred 
snugness  of  the  abode.  We  are  to  fancy  the  little  tenement  on 
the  skirts  of  a  forest,  that  is  to  say,  within,  but  not  deeply 
within,  the  trees ;  the  chapel  is  near  it,  but  not  close  to  it, 
more  embowered ;  and  the  rivulet  may  be  supposed  to  circuit 
both  chapel  and  hermitage,  running  partly  under  the  trees  be- 
tween mossy  and  flowery  banks,  for  hermits  were  great  cullers 
of  simples ;  and  though  Archimago  was  a  false  hermit,  we  are 
to  suppose  him  living  in  a  true  hermitage.  It  is  one  of  those 
pictures  which  remain  for  ever  in  the  memory  ;  and  the  suc- 
ceeding stanza  is  worthy  of  it. 

2  Arrived  there  the  little  house  they  fiU. 

Not  literally  the  house,  but  the  apartment  as  a  specimen  of 
the  house ;  for  we  see  by  what  follows  that  the  hermitage  must 
have  contained  at  least  four  rooms ;  one  in  which  the  knight 
and  the  lady  were  introduced,  two  more  for  their  bed-chambers, 
and  a  fourth  for  the  magician's  study. 

3  JVor  look  for  entertainment  where  none  was. 

"  Entertainment "  is  here  used  in  the  restricted  sense  of  treat- 
ment as  regards  food  and  accommodation  ;  according  to  the 
old  inscription  over  inn-doors — "  Entertainment  for  man  and 
horse." 

4  The  noblest  mind  the  best  contentment  has. 

This  is  one  of  Spenser's  many  noble  sentiments  expressed  in 
as  noble  single  lines,  as  if  made  to  be  recorded  in  the  copy-books 


68  SPENSER. 


of  full-grown  memories.    As,  for  example,  one  which  he  is  fond 
of  repeating : — 

No  service  loathsome  to  a  gentle  kind. 
Entire  affection  scorneth  nicer  hands. 
True  love  loathes  disdainful  nicety. 

And  that  fine  Alexandrine, — 

Weak  body  well  is  chang'd  for  mind's  redoubled  force. 

And  another,  which  Milton  has  imitated  in  Comus — 

Virtue  gives  herself  light  in  darkness  for  to  wade. 

5 «'  Let  none  them  read."— As  if  we  could  !  And  yet  while  we 
smile  at  the  impossibility,  we  delight  in  this  solemn  injunction  of 
the  Poet's,  so  child-like,  and  full  of  the  imaginative  sense  of  the 
truth  of  what  he  is  saying. 

^5  A  bold  bad  man  that  dared  to  call  by  name 
Great  Gorgon. 

This  is  the  ineffable  personage,  whom  Milton,  with  a  propriety 
equally  classical  and  poetical,  designates  as 

The  dreaded  name 
Of  Demogorgon. 

Par.  Lost,  Book  ii.,  v.  9C5. 

Ancient  believers  apprehended  such  dreadful  consequences 
from  the  mention  of  him,  that  his  worst  and  most  potent  invokers 
are  represented  as  fearful  of  it;  nor  am  I  aware  that  any  poet, 
Greek  or  Latin,  has  done  it,  though  learned  commentators  on 
Spenser  imply  otherwise.  In  the  passages  they  allude  to,  in 
Lucan  and  Statins,  there  is  no  name  uttered.  The  adjuration 
is  always  made  by  a  periphrasis.  This  circumstance  is  noticed 
by  Boccaccio,  who  has  given  by  far  the  best,  and  indeed,  I  be- 
lieve, the  only  account  of  this  very  rare  god,  except  what  is 
abridged  from  his  pages  in  a  modern  Italian  mythology,  and  fur- 
nished by  his  own  authorities,  Lactantius  and  Theodontus,  the 
latter  an  author  now  lost.  Ben  Jonson  calls  him  "  Boccaccio's 
Demogorgon."     The  passage  is  in  the  first  book  of  his  Genea- 


SPENSER.  59 


logia  Deorum,  a  work  of  prodigious  erudition  for  that  age,  and 
full  of  the  gusto  of  a  man  of  genius.  According  to  Boccaccio, 
Demogorgon  (Spirit  Earthworker)  was  the  great  deity  of  the 
rustical  Arcadians,  and  the  creator  of  all  things  out  of  brute 
matter.  He  describes  him  as  a  pale  and  sordid-looking  wretch, 
inhabiting  the  centre  of  the  earth,  all  over  moss  and  dirt,  squal- 
idly wet,  and  emitting  an  earthy  smell ;  and  he  laughs  at  the 
credulity  of  the  ancients  in  thinking  to  make  a  god  of  such  a  fel- 
low. He  is  very  glad,  however,  to  talk  about  him ;  and  doubt- 
less had  a  lurking  respect  for  him,  inasmuch  as  mud  and  dirt 
are  among  the  elements  of  things  material,  and  therefore  par- 
take of  a  certain  mystery  and  divineness. 

f  Legions  of  sprites,  the  which  like  little  flies. 

Flies  are  old  embodiments  of  evil  spirits ; — Anacreon  forbids  us 
to  call  them  incarnations,  in  reminding  us  that  insects  are  flesh- 
less  and  bloodless,  avaif^oaagxa.  Beelzebub  signifies  the  Lord  of 
Flies. 

8  The  world  of  waters  wide  and  deep. 

How  complete  a  sense  of  the  ocean  under  one  of  its  aspects ! 
Spenser  had  often  been  at  sea,  and  his  pictures  of  it,  or  in  con- 
nexion with  it,  are  frequent  and  fine  accordingly,  superior  per- 
haps to  those  of  any  other  English  poet,  Milton  certainly,  ex- 
cept in  that  one  famous  imaginative  passage  in  which  he  de- 
scribes a  fleet  at  a  distance  as  seeming  to  "  hang  in  the  clouds." 
And  Shakspeare  throws  himself  wonderfully  into  a  storm  at  sea, 
as  if  he  had  been  in  the  thick  of  it ;  though  it  is  not  known  that 
he  ever  quitted  the  land.  But  nobody  talks  so  much  about  the 
sea,  or  its  inhabitants,  or  its  voyagers,  as  Spenser.  He  was 
well  acquainted  with  the  Irish  Channel.  Coleridge  observes, 
(m^  sup.)  that  "  one  of  Spenser's  arts  is  that  of  alliteration,  which 
he  uses  with  great  effect  in  doubling  the  impression  of  an  image." 
The  verse  above  noticed  is  a  beautiful  example. 

9  To  Morpheus'  house  doth  hastily  repair,  &c 

Spenser's  earth  is  not  the  Homeric  earth,  a  circular  flat,  or  disc, 


60  SPENSER. 


studded  with  mountains,  and  encompassed  with  the  "  ocean 
stream."  Neither  is  it  in  all  cases  a  globe.  We  must  take 
his  cosmography  as  we  find,  and  as  he  wants  it ;  that  is  to  say, 
T)oetically,  and  according  to  the  feeling  required  by  the  matter 
m  hand.  In  the  present  instance,  we  are  to  suppose  a  precipi- 
'ious  country  striking  gloomily  and  far  downwards  to  a  cav- 
ernous sea-shore,  in  which  the  bed  of  Morpheus  is  placed,  the 
'inds  of  its  curtains  dipping  and  fluctuating  in  the  water,  which 
reaches  it  from  underground.  The  door  is  towards  a  flat  on  the 
land-side,  with  dogs  lying  "  far  before  it  ;"  and  the  moonbeams 
reach  it,  though  the  sun  never  does.  The  passage  is  imitated 
from  Ovid  (Lib.  ii.,  ver.  592),  but  with  wonderful  concentration, 
and  superior  home  appeal  to  the  imagination.  Ovid  will  have  no 
dogs,  nor  any  sound  at  all  but  that  of  Lethe  rippling  over  its 
pebbles.  Spenser  has  dogs,  but  afar  ofl*,  and  a  lulling  sound 
overhead  of  wind  and  rain.  These  are  the  sounds  that  men  de- 
light to  hear  in  the  intervals  of  their  own  sleep. 

10  Wrapt  in  eternal  silence,  far  from  enemies. 

The  modulation  of  this  most  beautiful  stanza  (perfect,  except 
for  the  v/ord  tumbling)  is  equal  to  that  of  the  one  describing  the 
hermitage,  and  not  the  less  so  for  being  less  varied  both  in  pauses 
and  in  vowels,  the  subject  demanding  a  greater  monotony.  A 
poetical  reader  need  hardly  be  told,  that  he  should  humor  such 
verses  with  a  correspondinjof  tone  in  the  recital.  Indeed  it  is 
difficult  to  read  them  without  lowering  or  deepening  the  voice, 
as  though  we  were  going  to  bed  ourselves,  or  thinking  of  the 
ramy  night  that  lulled  us.  A  long  rest  at  the  happy  pause  in 
the  last  line,  and  then  a  strong  accent  on  the  word  far,  put  us 
in  |»ossession  of  all  the  remoteness  of  the  scene  ; — and  it  is  im- 
proved, if  we  make  a  similar  pause  at   Iteard  : 

No  othftr  noise,  oT  people's  troublous  cries, 
As  still  are  wont  to  annoy  the  walled  town, 
Might  there  be  heard  ; — but  careless  quiet  lies. 
Wrapt  in  eternal  silence,— far  from  enemies. 

Upton,  one  of  Spenser's  commentators,  in  reference  to  the 


SPENSER.  61 


trickling  stream^  has  quoted  in  his  note  on  this  passage  some  fine 
lines  from  Chaucer,  in  which,  describing  the  "dark  valley"  of 
Sleep,  the  poet  says  there  was  nothing  whatsoever  in  the  place, 
save  that, 

A  few  wells 
Came  running  fro  the  clyffes  adowne, 
That  made  a  deadly  sleeping  sowne. 

Sotone  (in  the  old  spelling)  is  also  Spenser's  word.  In  the  text 
of  the  present  volume  it  is  written  soun\  to  show  that  it  is  the 
same  as  the  word  sound  without  the  d  ; — like  the  French  and 
Italian,  son,  suono. 

"  'Tis  hardly  possible,"  says  Upton,  "  for  a  more  picturesque 
description  to  come  from  a  poet  or  a  painter  than  this  whole 
magical  scene." — See  Todd^s  Variorum  Spenser,  vol.  ii.,  p.  38. 

Meantime,  the  magician  has  been  moulding  a  shape  of  air  to 
represent  the  virtuous  mistress  of  the  knight ;  and  when  the 
dream  arrives,  he  sends  them  both  to  deceive  him,  the  one  sitting 
by  his  head  and  abusing  "  the  organs  of  his  fancy"  (as  Milton 
says  of  the  devil  with  Eve),  and  the  other  behaving  in  a  manner 
very  unlike  her  prototype.     The  delusion  succeeds  for  a  time. 

11  A  Jit  false  dream  that  can  delude  the  sleeper's  sent. 

Scent,  sensation,  perception.  Skinner  says  that  sent,  which  we 
falsely  write  scent,  is  derived  a  sentiendo.  The  word  is  thus 
frequently  spelt  by  Spenser. — Todd. 

31  *' A  diverse  dream." — "  A  dream,"  says  Upton,  "that  would 
occasion  diversity  or  distraction  ;  or  a  frightful,  hideous  dream, 
from  the  Italian,  sogno  diver  so. ^^ — Dante,  Inferno,  canto  vi. 

Cerbero,  fiera  crudele  e  diver sa. 

(Cerberus,  the  fierce  beast,  cruel  and  diverse.) 

Inferno,  Orlando  Innamorato,  Lib.  i.,  canto  4,  stanza  66, 

Un  grido  orribile  e  diverso. 

(There  rose  a  cry,  horrible  and  diverse),  &c. 

See  Todd's  Edition,  as  above,  p.  42. 


62  SPENSER. 


The  obvious  sense,  however,  as  in  the  case  of  Dante's  Cerberus, 
I  take  to  be  monstrously  varied, — inconsistent  with  itself.  The 
dream  is  to  make  the  knight's  mistress  contradict  her  natural 
character. 


THE    CAVE    OF   MAMMON 

AND 

GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE. 

Sir  Guyon,  crossing  a  desert,  finds  Mammon  sitting  amidst  his  gold  in  a 
gloomy  valley.  Mammon,  taking  him  down  into  his  cave,  tempts  him 
with  the  treasures  there,  and  also  with  those  in  the  Garden  of  Proserpine 

"  Spenser's  strength,"  says  Hazlitt,  "  is  not  strength  of  will 
or  action,  of  bono  and  muscle,  nor  is  it  coarse  and  palpable  ;  but 
it  assumes  a  character  of  vastness  and  sublimity  seen  through 
the  same  visionary  medium"  (he  has  just  been  alluding  to 
one),  and  blended  with  the  appalling  associations  of  preternatural 
agency.  We  need  only  turn  in  proof  of  this  to  the  Cave  of 
Despair,  or  the  Cave  of  Mammon,  or  to  the  account  of  the 
change  of  Malbecco  into  Jealousy." — Lectures,  p.  77. 

That  house's  form  within  was  rude  and  strong,i3 
Like  a  huge  cave  hewn  out  of  rocky  clift. 
From  whose  rough  vault  the  ragged  branches  hung 
Embost  with  massy  gold  of  glorious  gift. 
And  with  rich  metal  loaded  every  rift, 
That  heavy  ruin  they  did  seem  to  threat ; 
And  over  them  Arachne  high  did  lift 
Her  cunning  web,  and  spread  her  subtle  net. 
Enwrapped  in  foul  smoke,  and  clouds  more  black  than  jet. 

Both  roof  and  floor,  and  walls  were  all  of  gold. 
But  overgrown  with  dust  and  old  decay. 
And  hid  in  darkness,  that  none  could  behold 
The  hue  thereof;  for  view  of  chearful  day 
Did  never  in  that  house  itself  display. 


SPENSER.  63 


But  a  faint  shadow  of  uncertain  light ; 
Such  as  a  lamp,  whose  life  does  fade  away  ; 
Or  as  the  moon,  clothed  with  cloiidy  night. 
Does  show  to  him  that  walks  in  fear  and  sad  affright. 

In  all  that  room  was  nothing  to  be  seen, 
But  huge  great  iron  chests  and  coffers  strong, 
All  barr'd  with  double  bands,  that  none  could  ween 
Them  to  enforce  by  violence  or  wrong ; 
On  every  side  they  placed  were  along ; 
But  all  the  ground  with  skulls  was  scattered. 
And  dead  men's  bones,  which  round  about  were  flung. 
Whose  lives  (it  seemed)  whilome  there  were  shed, 
And  their  vile  carcases  now  left  unburied. 

They  forward  pass,  nor  Guyon  yet  spake  word. 
Till  that  they  came  unto  an  iron  door, 
Which  to  them  open'd  of  its  own  accord. 
And  show'd  of  riches  such  exceeding  store. 
As  eye  of  man  did  never  see  before, 
Nor  ever  could  within  one  place  be  found, 
Though  all  the  wealth  which  is,  or  was  of  yore. 
Could  gathered  he  through  all  the  world  around^ 
And  that  above  were  added  to  that  under  ground. 

The  charge  thereof  unto  a  covetous  sprite 
Commanded  was,  who  thereby  did  attend. 
And  warily  awaited,  day  and  night, 
From  other  covetous  fiends  it  to  defend, 
Who  it  to  rob  and  ransack  did  intend. 
Then  Mammon  turning  to  that  warrior,  said : 
"  Lo  here  the  worlde's  bliss !  lo  here  the  end, 
To  which  all  men  do  aim,  rich  to  be  made  ! 
Such  grace  now  to  be  happy  is  before  thee  laid." 

"  Certes  "  (said  he)  "  I  n'ill  thine  offered  grace,i4 
Nor  to  be  made  so  happy  do  intend ; 
Another  bliss  before  mine  eyes  I  place. 
Another  happiness,  another  end  : 
To  them  that  list,  these  base  regards  I  lend ; 
But  I  in  arms,  and  in  achievements  brave, 
Do  rather  choose  my  fitting  hours  to  spend. 
And  to  be  lord  of  those  that  riches  have. 
Than  them  to  have  myself,  and  be  their  servile  slave 
•  *  *  * 

"  N'ill,  ne-will,  will  not. 


64  SPENSER. 


The  Knight  is  led  further  on,  and  shown  more  treasures, 
and  afterwards  taken  into  the  palace  of  Ambition  ;  but  all  in 
'^ain. 

Mammon  emmoved  was  with  inward  wrath ; 
Yet  forcing  it  to  fain,  him  forth  thence  led, 
Through  griesly  shadows,  by  a  beaten  path, 
Into  a  garden  goodly  garnished 

With  herbs  and  fruits,  whose  kinds  must  not  be  read : 
Not  such  as  earth,  out  of  her  fruitful  womb, is 
Throws  forth  to  men,  sweet  and  well-savored. 
But  direful  deadly  black,  both  leaf  and  bloom. 
Fit  to  adorn  the  dead  and  deck  the  dreary  tomb. 

There  mournful  cypress  grew  in  greatest  store  ;^8 
And  trees  of  bitter  gall ;  and  heben  sad ; 
Dead  sleeping  poppy  :  and  black  hellebore  ; 
Cold  coloquintida  ;  and  tetra  mad  ; 
Mortal  samnitis ;  and  cicuta  bad, 
With  which  the  unjust  Athenians  made  to  die 
Wise  Socrates,  who  therefore  quaffing  glad 
Pour'd  out  his  life  and  last  philosophy 
To  the  fair  Critias,  his  dearest  belamy  ! 

The  garden  of  Proserpina  this  hight ;" 
And  in  the  midst  thereof  a  silver  seat. 
With  a  thick  arbor  goodly  over-dight. 
In  which  she  often  us'd  from  open  heat 

Herself  to  shroud,  and  pleasures  to  entreat :  < 

Next  thereunto  did  grow  a  goodly  tree. 
With  branches  broad  dispread  and  body  great, 
Clothed  with  leaves,  that  none  the  wood  might  see. 
And  loaded  all  with  fruit  as  thick  as  it  might  be. 

Their  fruit  were  golden  apples,  glistering  bright. 
That  goodly  was  their  glory  to  behold ; 
On  earth  like  never  grew,  nor  living  wight 
Like  ever  saw,  but  they  from  hence  were  sold  ;i8 
For  those,  which  Hercules  with  conquest  bold 
Got  from  great  Atlas'  daughters,  hence  began, 
And  planted  there  did  bring  forth  fruit  of  gold  ; 
And  those,  with  which  th'  Eubean  young  man  wan 
Swift  Atalanta,  when  through  craft  he  her  out-ran. 


SPENSER.  65 


Here  also  sprung  that  goodly  golden  fruit, 
With  which  Acontius  got  his  lover  true, 
Whom  he  had  long  time  sought  with  fruitless  suit ; 
Here  eke  that  famous  golden  apple  grew. 
The  which  amongst  the  gods  false  Ate  threw ; 
For  which   the  Idaan  ladies  disagreed,i» 
Till  partial  Paris  deem'd  it  Venus*  due. 
And  had  of  her  fair  Helen  for  his  meed. 
That  many  noble  Greeks  and  Trojans  made  to  bleed. 

The  warlike  elf  much  wonder'd  at  this  tree 
So  fair  and  great,  that  shadowed  all  the  ground  ; 
And  his  broad  branches,  laden  with  rich  fee. 
Did  stretch  themselves  vnthout  the  utmost  bound 
Of  this  great  garden,  compassed  with  a  mound. 
Which  overhanging,  they  themselves  did  steep 
Jn  a  black  flood,  which  flow'd  about  it  round  J^^ 
T%at  is  the  river  of  Cocytus  deep. 
In  which  full  many  souls  do  endless  wail  and  weep. 

Which  to  behold,  he  climb'd  up  to  the  bank  ; 
And,  looking  down,  saw  many  damned  wights 
In  those  sad  waves  which  direfuU  deadly  8tank,2J 
Plunged  continually  of  cruel  sprites. 
That  with  their  piteous  cries  and  yelling  shrights 
They  made  the  further  shore  resounden  wide. 
Amongst  the  rest  of  those  same  rueful  sights. 
One  cursed  creature  he  by  chance  espied, 
T%at  drenchid  lay  full  deep  under  the  garden  side. 

Deep  was  he  drenched  to  the  utmost  chin. 
Yet  gaped  still  as  coveting  to  drink 
Of  the  cold  liquor  which  he  waded  in  : 
And,  stretching  forth  his  hand,  did  often  think 
To  reach  the  food  which  grew  upon  the  brink ; 
But  both  the  fruit  from  hand  hlxA  flood  from  mouth 
Did  fly  aback,  and  made  him  vainly  swinck. 
The  whiles  he  starv'd  with  hunger  and  with  droughth : 
He  daily  died,  yet  never  thoroughly  dygn  couth.^ 

The  knight,  him  seeing  labor  so  in  vain, 
Ask'd  who  he  was,  and  what  he  meant  thereoy ! 
Who  groaning  deep,  thus  answered  him  again ; 
*•  Most  cursed  of  all  creatures  under  sky, 
Lo  !  Tantalus,  I  here  tormented  lie  ! 
Of  whom  high  Jove  wont  whilom  feasted  be ! 
Lo !  here  I  now  for  want  of  food  do  die ! 
6 


66  SPENSER. 


But,  if  that  thou  be  such  as  I  thee  see, 
Of  grace  I  pray  thee  give  to  eat  and  drink  to  me  !** 

" Nay,  nay,  thou  greedy  Tantalus**  quoth  he ; 

*'  Abide  the  fortune  of  thy  present  fate  ; 
And  unto  all  that  live  in  high  degree. 
Example  be  of  mind  intemperate. 
To  teach  them  how  to  use  their  present  state." 
Then  'gan  the  cursed  wretch  aloud  to  cry. 
Accusing  highest  Jove  and  gods  ingrate  : 
And  eke  blaspheming  Heaven  bitterly, 
As  author  of  injustice,  there  to  let  him  die. 

He  look'd  a  little  further,  and  espied 
Another  vsTetch  whose  carcase  deep  was  drent 
Within  the  river  which  the  same  did  hide  : 
But  both  his  hands,  most  filthy  feculent, 
Above  the  water  were  on  high  extent. 
And  fain' d  to  wash  themselves  incessantly. 
Yet  nothing  cleaner  were  for  such  intent. 
But  rather  fouler  seemed  to  the  eye  ; 
So  lost  his  labor  vain,  and  idle  industry. 

The  knight  him  calling,  asked  who  he  was  ? 
Who,  lifting  up  his  head,  him  answered  thus  : 
"I  Pilate  am,23  the  falsest  judge,  alas  ! 
And  most  unjust ;  that,  by  unrighteous 
And  wicked  doom,  to  Jews  despiteous 
Delivered  up  the  Lord  of  Life  to  die, 
And  did  acquit  a  murderer  felonous ; 
The  whilst  my  hands  I  wash'd  in  purity ; 
The  whilst  my  soul  was  soil'd  with  foul  iniquity." 

Infinite  more  tormented  in  like  pain 
He  then  beheld,  too  long  here  to  be  told  : 
Nor  Mammon  would  there  let  him  long  remain. 
For  terror  of  the  tortures  manifold, 
In  which  the  damned  souls  he  did  behold, 
But  roughly  him  bespake  :  "  Thou  fearful  fool. 
Why  takest  not  of  that  same  fruit  of  gold ; 
Nor  sittest  down  on  that  same  silver  stool. 
To  rest  thy  weary  person  in  the  shady  cool  I" 

All  which  he  did  to  do  him  deadly  fall 
In  frail  intemperance  through  sinful  bait; 
To  which  if  he  inclined  had  at  all, 


SPENSER.  67 


That  dreadful  fiend,  which  did  behind  him  wait, 
Would  him  have  re^t  in  thousand  pieces  straight : 
But  he  was  wary  wise  in  all  his  way. 
And  well  perceived  his  deceitful  sleight. 
Nor  suffered  lust  his  safety  to  betray  : 
So  goodly  did  beguile  the  guiler  of  his  prey. 

And  now  he  has  so  long  remained  there. 
That  vital  power  'gan  wax  both  weak  and  wan 
For  want  of  food  and  sleep,  which  two  upbear. 
Like  mighty  pillars,  this  frail  life  of  man. 
That  none  without  the  same  enduren  can ; 
For  now  three  days  of  men  were  full  outwrought. 
Since  he  this  hardy  enterprise  began: 
Therefore  great  Mammon  fairly  he  besought 
Into  the  world  to  guide  him  back,  as  he  him  brought. 

The  god,  though  loth,  yet  was  constrain'd  t'  obey , 
For  longer  time  than  that  no  living  wight 
Below  the  earth  might  suffered  be  to  stay  : 
So  back  again  him  brought  to  living  light. 
But  all  as  soon  as  his  enfeebled  sprite 
'Gan  suck  this  vital  air  into  his  breast. 
As  overcome  with  too  exceeding  might. 
The  life  did  flit  away  out  of  her  nest. 
And  all  his  senses  were  in  deadly  fit  opprest 

13  That  house's  form  within  was  rude  and  strongs  Sec. 

Hazlitt,  with  his  fine  poetical  taste,  speaking  of  the  two  stan- 
zas here  following,  and  the  previous  one  beginning,  And  over 
all,  (J-c,  says,  that  they  are  unrivalled  for  the  "  portentous  mas- 
.siveness  of  the  forms,  the  splendid  chiaroscuro  and  shadowy 
horror," — ''  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets,"  third  edition,  p.  77. 
It  is  extraordinary  that  in  the  new  "  Elegant  Extracts,'^  pub- 
lished under  his  name,  seven  lines  of  the  first  stanza,  beginning 
at  the  words,  "  from  whose  rough  vault,"  are  left  out.  Their 
exceeding  weight,  the  contrast  of  the  dirt  and  squalor  with  the 
gold,  and  the  spider's  webs  dusking  ov6r  all,  compose  chief  part 
of  the  grandeur  of  the  description  (as  indeed  he  has  just  said). 
Hogarth,  by  the  way,  has  hit  upon  the  same  thought  of  a  spider's 
web  for  his  poor's-box,  in  the  wedding-scene  in  Mary-le-bone 
church.     So  do  tragedy  and  comedy  meet. 

15  "  JVot  such  as  earth,"  &c.— Upton  thinks  it  not  unlikely  that 


SPENSER. 


Spenser  imagined  the  direful  deadly  and  black  fruits  which 
this  infernal  garden  bears,  from  a  like  garden  which  Dante 
describes,  Inferno,  canto  xiii.,  v.  4. 

Non  frondi  verdi,  ma  di  color  fosco, 
Non  rami  schietti,  ma  nodosi  e'nvolti, 
Non  pomi  v'  eran,  ma  stecchi  con  tosco. 

(No  leaves  of  green  were  theirs,  but  dusky  sad ; 
No  fair  straight  boughs,  but  gnarl'd  and  tangled  all : 
No  rounded  fruits,  but  poison-bearing  thorns.) 

Dante's  garden,  however,  has  no  flowers.  It  is  a  human 
grove  ;  that  is  to  say,  made  of  trees  that  were  once  human  be- 
ings,— an  aggravation  (according  to  his  customary  improve- 
ment upon  horrors)  of  a  like  solitary  instance  in  Virgil,  which 
Spenser  has  also  imitated  in  his  story  of  FradubiOy  book  i., 
canto  2,  st.  30. 

>«  There  mournful  cypress  grew  in  greatest  store,  &c. 

Among  the  trees  and  flowers  here  mentioned,  hehen,  is  ebony; 
coloquintida,  the  bitter  gourd  or  apple ;  tetra,  the  tetrum  solanunij 
or  deadly  night-shade ;  samnitis,  Upton  takes  to  be  the  Sabine, 
or  savine-tree ;  and  cicuta  is  the  hemlock,  which  Socrates 
drank  when  he  poured  out  to  his  friends  his  "  last  philosophy." 
How  beautifully  said  is  that !  But  the  commentators  have  shown 
that  it  was  a  slip  of  memory  in  the  poet  to  make  Critias  their 
representative  on  the  occasion, — that  apostate  from  his  philoso- 
phy not  having  been  present.  Belamy  is  hel  ami,  fair  friend, — 
a  phrase  answering  to  good  friend,  in  the  old  French  writers. 

1'  ITie  garden  of  Proserpina  this  hight. 

The  idea  of  a  garden  and  a  golden  tree  for  Proserpina  is  in 
Claudian,  Be  Raptu  Proserpina,  lib.  ii.,  v.  290.  But  Spenser 
has  made  the  flowers  funereal,  and  added  the  "  silver  seat," — 
a  strong  yet  still  delicate  contrast  to  the  black  flowers,  and  in 
cold  sympathy  with  them.  It  has  also  a  certain  fair  and  lady- 
like fitness  to  the  possessor  of  the  arbor.  May  I  venture,  with 
all  reverence  to  Spenser,  to  express  a  wish  that  he  had  made  a 


SPENSER.  60 


compromise  with  the  flowers  of  Claudian,  and  retained  them  by 
the  side  of  the  others?  Proserpine  was  an  unwilling  bride, 
though  she  became  a  reconciled  wife.  She  deserved  to  enjoy 
her  Sicilian  flowers  ;  and  besides,  in  possessing  a  nature  supe- 
rior to  her  position,  she  would  not  be  without  innocent  and 
cheerful  thoughts.  Perhaps,  however,  our  "  sage  and  serious 
Spenser"  would  have  answered,  that  she  could  see  into  what 
was  good  in  these  evil  flowers,  and  so  get  a  contentment  from 
objects  which  appeared  only  melancholy  to  others.  It  is  cer- 
tainly a  high  instance  of  modern  imagination,  this  venturing  to 
make  a  pleasure-garden  out  of  the  flowers  of  pain. 

J8  ^'Sut  they  from  hence  were  sold."— Upton  proposes  that  '*  with  a 
little  variation,"  this  word  sold  should  be  read  stold  ;  "  that  is," 
says  he,  "  procured  by  stealth  :" — he  does  not  like  to  say  stolen. 
"The  wise  convey  it  call."  Spenser  certainly  would  have  no 
objection  to  spell  the  word  in  any  way  most  convenient ;  and  I 
confess  I  wish,  with  Upton,  that  he  had  exercised  his  licence  in 
this  instance ;  though  he  might  have  argued,  that  the  infernal 
powers  are  not  in  the  habit  of  letting  people  have  their  goods  for 
nothing.  In  how  few  of  the  instances  that  follow  did  the  pos- 
session of  the  golden  apples  turn  out  well !  Are  we  sure  that  it 
prospered  in  any  ?  For  Acontius  succeeded  with  his  apple  by 
a  trick ;  and  after  all,  as  the  same  commentator  observes,  it  was 
not  with  a  golden  apple,  but  common  mortal-looking  fruit,  though 
gathered  in  the  garden  of  Venus.  He  wrote  a  promise  upon  it 
to  marry  him,  and  so  his  mistress  read,  and  betrothed  herself. 
The  story  is  in  Ovid :  Her  aides,  Epist.  xx.,  xxi. 

^9  For  which  the  Ideean  ladies  disagreed. 

"  He  calls  the  three  goddesses  that  contended  for  ^he  prize  of 
beauty,  boldly  but  elegantly  enough,  Idaean  Ladies." — Jortin. 
"He  calls  the  Muses  and  the  Graces  likewise.  Ladies."-^ 
Church.  "  The  ladies  may  be  further  gratified  by  Milton's 
adaptation  of  their  title  to  the  celebrated  daughters  of  Hespe- 
rus, whom  he  calls  Ladies  of  the  Hesperides." — Todd.  The 
ladies  of  the  present  day,  in  which  so  much  good  poetry  and 
reading  haye  revived,  will  smile  at  the  vindication  of  a  word 


70  SPENSER. 


again  become  common,  and  so  frequent  in  the  old  poets  and 
romancers. 

20  WJiich  overhanging,  they  themselves  did  steep 
In  a  black  flood,  which  flowed  about  it  round,  &c. 

The  tree,  observe,  grew  in  the  middle  of  "  this  great  garden,'' 
and  yet  overhung  its  utmost  bounds,  and  steeped  itself  in  the 
black  river  by  which  it  was  encircled.  We  are  to  imagine  the 
branches  with  their  fruit  stretching  over  the  garden  like  one 
enormous  arbor  or  trellice,  and  mixing  a  certain  lustrous  light 
with  the  gloom  and  the  funereal  flowers.  You  walk  in  the 
shadow  of  a  golden  death.  What  an  excessive  and  gorgeous 
luxury  beside  the  blackness  of  hell ' 

21  Jlnd  looking  down  saw  many  damned  wights 
In  those  sad  waves  which  direful  deadly  stank, 
Plunged  continually  of  cruel  sprites. 
That  with  their  piteous  cries,  &c. 

Virgil  appears  to  have  been  the  first  who  ventured  to  find 
sublimity  in  a  loathsome  odor.  I  say  "  appears,"  because 
many  Greek  writers  have  perished  whom  he  copied,  and  it  is 
probable  the  invention  was  theirs.  A  greater  genius,  Dante, 
followed  him  in  this,  as  in  other  respects ;  and,  probably,  would 
have  set  the  example  had  it  not  been  given  him.  Sackville  fol- 
lowed both  ;  and  the  very  excess  of  Spenser's  sense  of  the 
beautiful  and  attractive  would  render  him  fully  aware  of  the 
capabilities  of  this  intensity  of  the  repulsive.  Burke  notices 
the  subject  in  his  treatise  On  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful.  The 
following  is  the  conclusion  of  his  remarks  : — "  It  is  one  of  the 
tests  by  which  the  sublimity  of  an  image  is  to  be  tried,  not 
whether  it  becomes  mean  when  associated  with  mean  ideas,  but 
whether,  when  united  with  images  of  an  allowed  grandeur,  the 
whole  composition  is  supported  with  dignity.  Things  which  are 
terrible  are  always  great ;  but  when  things  possess  disagreeable 
qualities,  or  such  as  have  indeed  some  degree  of  danger,  but  of 
a  danger  easily  overcome,  they  are  merely  odious,  as  toads  and 
spiders." — Part  the  Second,  Section  the  Twenty-first.  Both  points 


SPENSER.  71 


are  easily  illustrated.  Passing  by  a  foul  ditch,  you  are  simply 
disgusted,  and  turn  aside ;  but  imagine  yourself  crossing  a 
mountain,  and  coming  upon  a  hot  and  slimy  valley  in  which  a 
pestilential  vapor  ascends  from  a  city,  the  inhabitants  of  which 
have  died  of  the  plague  and  been  left  unburied ;  or  fancy  the 
great  basin  of  the  Caspian  Sea  deprived  of  its  waters,  and  the 
horror  which  their  refuse  would  send  up  over  the  neighboring 
regions. 

22  He  daily  died,  yet  never  thoroughly  dyBn  couth. 

Die  could  ;  he  never  could  thoroughly  die.  Truly  horrible  ; 
and,  as  Swift  says  of  his  hanging  footman,  "  very  satisfactory 
to  the  beholders."  Yet  Spenser's  Tantalus,  and  his  Pontius 
Pilate,  and  indeed  the  whole  of  this  latler  part  of  his  hell, 
strike  us  with  but  a  poor  sort  of  cruelty  compared  with  any  like 
number  of  pages  out  of  the  tremendous  volume  of  Dante.  But 
the  far  greater  part  of  our  extract,  the  sooty  golden  cave  of 
Mammon,  and  the  mortal  beauty  of  the  garden  of  Proserpine, 
with  its  golden  fruit  hanging  in  the  twilight ;  all,  in  short,  in 
which  Spenser  combines  his  usual  luxury  with  grandeur,  are  as 
fine  as  anything  of  the  kind  which  Dante  or  any  one  else  ever 
conceived. 

23  "  /  Pilate  am,"  &c.  Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  I  intend  the 
slightest  glance  of  levity  towards  the  divine  name  which  has 
become  identified  with  charity.  But  charity  itself  will  allow  us 
to  imagine  the  astonishment  of  this  Roman  Governor  of  Jerusa- 
lem, could  he  have  foreseen  the  destinies  of  Ms  name.  He 
doubtless  thought,  that  if  another  age  spoke  of  him  at  all,  it 
would  treat  him  as  a  good-natured  man  who  had  to  rule  over  a 
barbarous  people,  and  make  a  compromise  between  his  better 
judgment  and  their  prejudices.  No  name,  except  Judas's,  has 
received  more  execration  from  posterity.  Our  good-natured 
poet  has  here  put  him  in  the  "  loathly  lakes  "  of  Tartarus. 


SPENSER. 


A  GALLERY  OF  PICTURES   FROM   SPENSER. 

SPENSER  CONSIDERED  AS  THE  POET   OF  THE    PAINTERS. 

It  has  been  a  whim  of  late  years  with  some  transcendental  critics, 
in  the  excess  of  the  reaction  of  what  may  be  called  spiritual 
poetry  against  material,  to  deny  utterly  the  old  family  relation- 
ship between  poetry  and  painting.  They  seem  to  think  that 
because  Darwin  absurdly  pronounced  nothing  to  be  poetry  which 
could  not  be  painted,  they  had  only  to  avail  themselves  of  the 
spiritual  superiority  of  the  art  of  the  poet,  and  assert  the  con- 
trary extreme.  Now,  it  is  granted  that  the  subtlest  creations  of 
poetry  are  neither  effected  by  a  painter-like  process,  nor  limited 
to  his  powers  of  suggestion.  The  finest  idea  the  poet  gives  you 
of  anything  is  by  what  may  be  called  sleight  of  mind,  striking 
it  without  particular  description  on  the  mind  of  the  reader, 
feeling  and  all,  moral  as  well  as  physical,  as  a  face  is  struck  on 
a  mirror.  But  to  say,  nevertheless,  that  the  poet  does  not  in- 
clude the  painter  in  his  more  visible  creations,  is  to  deprive  him 
of  half  his  privileges,  nay,  of  half  his  very  poems.  Thousands 
of  images  start  out  of  the  canvass  of  his  pages  to  laugh  at  the 
assertion.  Where  did  the  great  Italian  painters  get  half  of  the 
most  bodily  details  of  their  subjects  but  out  of  the  poets  ?  and 
what  becomes  of  a  thousand  landscapes,  portraits,  colors,  lights 
and  shades,  groupings,  effects,  intentional  and  artistical  pictures, 
in  the  writings  of  all  the  poets  inclusive,  the  greatest  especially  ? 
I  have  taken  opportunity  of  this  manifest  truth  to  introduce 
under  one  head  a  variety  of  the  most  beautiful  passages  in 
Spenser,  many  of  which  might  otherwise  have  seemed  too 
small  for  separate  exhibition  ;  and  I  am  sure  that  the  more  po- 
etical the  reader,  the  more  will  he  be  delighted  to  see  these 
manifestations  of  the   pictorial   side  of  poetry.     He   will  not 


SPENSER.  73 


find  them  destitute  of  that  subtler  spirit  of  the  art,  which  picture 
cannot  express. 

"  After  reading,"  said  Pope,  "  a  canto  of  Spenser  two  or 
three  days  ago  to  an  old  lady,  between  seventy  and  eighty  years 
of  age,  she  said  that  I  had  been  showing  her  a  gallery  of  pic- 
tures. I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  she  said  very  right.  There 
is  something  in  Spenser  that  pleases  one  as  strongly  in  old  age 
as  it  did  in  one's  youth.  I  read  the  Faerie  Queene,  when  I 
was  about  twelve,  with  infinite  delight ;  and  I  think  it  gave  me 
as  much,  when  I  read  it  over  about  a  year  or  two  ago." — 
Spence's  Anecdotes. 

The  canto  that  Pope  here  speaks  of  was  probably  one  of  the 
most  allegorical  sort,  very  likely  that  containing  the  Mask  of 
Cupid.  In  the  one  preceding  it,  there  is  a  professed  gallery  of 
pictures,  supposed  to  be  painted  on  tapestry.  But  Spenser's 
allegorical  pictures  are  only  his  most  obvious  ones :  he  has  a 
profusion  of  others,  many  of  them  still  more  exquisitely  painted. 
I  think  that  if  he  had  not  been  a  great  poet,  he  would  have  been 
a  great  painter ;  and  in  that  case  there  is  ground  for  believing 
that  England  would  have  possessed,  and  in  the  person  of  one 
man,  her  Claude,  her  Annibal  Caracci,  her  Correggio,  her 
Titian,  her  Rembrandt,  perhaps  even  her  Raphael.  I  suspect 
that  if  Spenser's  history  were  better  known,  we  should  find  that 
he  was  a  passionate  student  of  pictures,  a  haunter  of  the  col- 
lections of  his  friends  Essex  and  Leicester.  The  tapestry  just 
alluded  to,  he  criticises  with  all  the  gusto  of  a  connoisseur,  per- 
haps with  an  eye  to  pictures  in  those  very  collections.  In 
speaking  of  a  Leda,  he  says,  bursting  into  an  admiration  of  the 
imaginary  painter, 

0,  wondrous  skill  and  sweet  wit  of  the  many 

That  her  in  daffodillies  sleeping  made. 

From  scorching  heat  her  dainty  limbs  to  shade  ! 

And  then  he  proceeds  with  a  description  full  of  life  and  beauty, 
but  more  proper  to  be  read  with  the  context  than  brought  for- 
ward separately.  The  coloring  implied  in  these  lines  is  in  the 
very  core  of  the  secret  of  that  branch  of  the  art ;  and  the  un- 


74  SPENSER. 


painted  part  of  the  tapestry  is  described  with  hardly  less 
beauty. 

For,  round  about,  the  walls  y  clothed  were 
With  goodly  arras  of  great  majesty, 
Woven  with  gold  and  silk  so  close  and  near, 
That  the  rich  metal  lurked  privily. 
As  feigning  to  be  hid  from  envious  eye ; 
Yet  here,  and  there,  and  everywhere,  unwares 
It  show'd  itself,  and  shone  unwillingly  ; 
Like  to  a  discolor' d  snake,  whose  hidden  snares 
Through  the  green  grass  his  long  bright  burnished  back  declares. 

Spenser  should  have  a  new  set  of  commentators, — ^the  painters 
themselves.  They  might  do  for  him  in  their  own  art,  what 
Warton  did  in  his, — trace  him  among  his  brethren.  Certainly 
no  works  would  "  illustrate"  better  than  Spenser's  with  engrav- 
ings from  the  old  masters  (I  should  like  no  better  amusement 
than  to  hunt  him  through  the  print-shops !),  and  from  none  might 
a  better  gallery  be  painted  by  new  ones.  I  once  wrote  an  arti- 
cle on  the  subject  in  a  magazine ;  and  the  late  Mr.  Hilton  (I  do 
not  know  whether  he  saw  it)  projected  such  a  gallery,  among 
his  other  meritorious  endeavors.  It  did  not  answer  to  the  origin- 
als, either  in  strength  or  sweetness ;  but  a  very  creditable  and 
pleasing  specimen  may  be  seen  in  the  National  Gallery, — Sere- 
na rescuedfrom  the  Savages  hy  Sir  Calepine. 

In  corroboration  of  the  delight  which  Spenser  took  in  this  more 
visible  kind  of  poetry,  it  is  observable  that  he  is  never  more  free 
from  his  superfluousness  than  when  painting  a  picture.  When 
he  gets  into  a  moral,  or  intellectual,  or  narrative  vein,  we  might 
often  spare  him  a  good  deal  of  the  flow  of  it ;  but  on  occasions  of 
sheer  poetry  and  painting,  he  is  too  happy  to  wander  so  much 
from  his  point.  If  he  is  tempted  to  expatiate,  every  word  is  to 
the  purpose.  Poetry  and  painting  indeed  would  in  Spenser  be 
identical,  if  they  could  be  so  ;  and  they  are  more  so,  too,  than  it 
has  latterly  been  the  fashion  to  allow  ;  for  painting  does  not  deal 
in  the  purely  visible.  It  deals  also  in  the  suggestive  and  the 
allusive,  therefore  in  thoughts  beyond  the  visible  proof  of  the 
canvass  ;  in  intimations  of  sound  ;  in  references  to  the  past  and 
future.     Still  the  medium  is  a  visible  one,  and  is  at  the  mercy  of 


SPENSER.  75 


the  spectator's  amount  of  comprehension.  The  great  privilege 
of  the  poet  is,  that,  using  the  medium  of  speech,  he  can  make  his 
readers  poets ;  can  make  them  aware  and  possessed  of  what  he 
intends,  enlarging  their  comprehension  by  his  details,  or  enlight- 
ening it  by  a  word.  A  painter  might  have  the  same  feeling  as 
Shakspeare  respecting  the  moonlight  "  sleeping"  on  a  bank ; 
but  how  is  he  to  evince  it  ?  He  may  go  through  a  train  of  the 
profoundest  thoughts  in  his  own  mind  ;  but  into  what  voluminous 
fairy  circle  is  he  to  compress  them  ?  Poetry  can  paint  whole 
galleries  in  a  page,  while  her  sister  art  requires  heaps  of  can- 
vass to  render  a  few  of  her  poems  visible. 

This,  however,  is  what  everybody  knows.  Not  so,  that  Spen- 
ser emulated  the  Raphaels  and  Titians  in  a  profusion  of  pic- 
tures, many  of  which  are  here  taken  from  their  walls.  They 
give  the  Poet's  Poet  a  claim  to  a  new  title, — that  of  Poet  of  the 
Painters.  The  reader  has  seen  what  Mr.  Hazlitt  says  of  him  in 
connection  with  Rubens ;  but  the  passage  adds,  what  I  have 
delayed  quoting  till  now,  that "  none  but  Rubens  could  have 
painted  the  fancy  of  Spenser;"  adding  further,  that  Rubens 
"could  not  have  painted  the  sentiment,  the  airy  dream  that 
hovers  over  it."  I  venture  to  think  that  this  fine  critic  on  the 
two  sister  arts  wrote  the  first  of  these  sentences  hastily  ;  and  that 
the  truth  of  the  second  would  have  shown  him,  on  reflecti®n, 
with  what  painters,  greater  than  Rubens,  the  poet  ought  to  have 
been  compared.  The  great  Fleming  was  a  man  of  a  genius  as 
fine  and  liberal  as  his  nature  ;  yet  who  that  looks  for  a  moment 
at  the  pictures  which  ensue,  shall  say  that  he  would  have  been 
justified  in  putting  his  name  to  them  ?  Sentiments  and  airy 
dreams  hover  over  them  all, — say  rather,  abide  and  brood  over 
many, — with  such  thougJitfulness  as  the  Italian  aspect  can  only 
match.  More  surprising  is  Mr.  Coleridge's  assertion,  that 
Spenser's  descriptions  are  "  not,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word, 
picturesque ;  but  composed  of  a  wondrous  series  of  images,  as 
in  dreams."  Lectures  (ut  sup.)^  vol.  i.,  p.  93.  If,  by  true 
sense  of  the  word,  he  means  the  acquired  sense  of  piquancy  of 
contrast,  or  a  certain  departure  from  the  smoothness  of  beauty  in 
order  to  enhance  it,  Spenser  certainly  is  not  in  the  habit  of  put- 
ting many  thorns  in  his  roses.     His  bowers  of  bliss,  he  thought, 


76  SPENSER. 


did  not  demand  it.  The  gentle  beast  that  Una  rode,  would  not 
have  cut  a  very  piquant  figure  in  the  forest  scenery  of  Mr.  Gil- 
pin. But  if  Coleridge  means  picturesque  in  the  sense  of  fit- 
ness for  picture,  and  very  striking  fitness,  then  the  recollections 
of  the  masks,  or  the  particular  comparison  of  Prince  Arthur's 
crest  with  the  almond  tree  (which  is  the  proof  he  adduces)  made 
him  forget  the  innumerable  instances  in  which  the  pictorial 
power  is  exhibited.  Nor  was  Spenser  unaware,  nay,  he  was 
deeply  sensible  of  the  other  feelings  of  the  picturesque,  as  may 
be  seen  in  his  sea-gods'  beards  (when  Proteus  kisses  A moret), 
his  "  rank  grassy  fens,"  his  "  weeds  of  glorious  feature,"  his 
oaks  "  half  dead,"  his  satyrs,  gloomy  lights,  beautiful  but  unlucky 
grounds,  &c.,  &c.,  &c.  (for  in  this  sense  of  the  word,  there  are 
feelings  of  the  invisible  corresponding  with  the  stronger  forms  of 
the  picturesque).  He  has  himself  noticed  the  theory  in  his  Bower 
of  Bliss,  and  thus  anticipated  the  modern  taste  in  landscape 
gardening,  the  idea  of  which  is  supposed  to  have  originated  with 
Milton : 

One  would  have  thought  {so  cunningly  the  rude 
And  scorned  parts  were  mingled  with  the  fine) 
That  Nature  had  for  wantonness  ensued 
Art,  and  that  Art  at  Nature  did  repine. 
So,  striving  each  the  other  to  undermine. 
Each  did  the  other's  work  more  beautify. 

But  the  reader  will  judge  for  himself. 

I  have  attached  to  each  of  the  pictures  in  this  Spenser  Gal- 
lery the  name  of  the  painter,  of  whose  genius  it  reminded  me ; 
and  I  think  the  connoisseur  will  allow,  that  the  assignment  was 
easy,  and  that  the  painter-poet's  range  of  art  is  equally  wide  and 
wonderful. 


SPENSER.  77 


^iP 


CHARISSA;  OR,  CHARITY. 
Character,  Spiritual  Love  ;  Painter  for  it,  RaphaeL 

She  was  a  woman  in  her  freshest  age. 
Of  wondrous  beauty  and  of  bounty  rare. 
With  goodly  grace  and  comely  personage, 
That  was  on  earth  not  easy  to  compare  ; 
Pull  of  great  love  ;  but  Cupid's  wanton  snare 
As  hell  she  hated,  chaste  in  work  and  will ; 
Her  neck  and  breasts  were  ever  open  bare. 
That  ay  thereof  her  babes  might  suck  their  fill ; 
The  rest  was  all  in  yellow  robes  arrayed  still. 

A  multitude  of  babes  about  her  hung 
Playing  their  sports,  that  joyed  her  to  behold, 
Whom  still  she  fed,  whilst  they  were  weak  and  young. 
But  thrust  them  forth  still  as  they  waxdd  old ; 
And  on  her  head  she  wore  a  tire  of  gold 
Adorn'd  with  gems  and  owches  wondrous  fair,* 
Whose  passing  price  uneathf  was  to  be  told ; 
And  by  her  side  there  sate  a  gentle  pair^* 
Of  turtle  doves,  she  sitting  in  an  ivory  chair. 

24  "  And  by  her  side,"  &c.  This  last  couplet  brings  at  once  be- 
fore  us  all  the  dispassionate  graces  and  unsuperfluous  treatmen 
of  Raphael's  allegorical  females. 

•  Owches  wondroiM  fair.    Owches  are  carcanets  or  ranges  of  jewels, 
t  Uneath.     Scarcely,  with  difficulty. 


79  SPENSER. 


HOPE. 

Character f  Sweetness  without  Bevotedness  ;  Painter ^  Correggio, 

With  him  went  Hope  in  rank,  a  handsome  maid, 
Of  cheerful  look,  and  lovely  to  behold : 
In  silken  samite  she  was  light  array'd, 
A?id  her  fair  locks  were  woven  up  in  gold.^^ 
She  alway  smiVd; — and  in  her  hand  did  hold 
An  holy-water  sprinkle  dipp'd  in  dew, 
With  which  she  sprinkled  favors  manifold 
On  whom  she  list  and  did  great  liking  shew ; 
Great  liking  unto  many,  hut  true  love  to  few. 

25  «  And  her  fair  locks,"  Sec.  What  a  lovely  line  is  that !  and 
with  a  beauty  how  simple  and  sweet  is  the  sentiment  portrayed 
in  the  next  three  words, — "  She  alway  smil'd  !"  But  almost 
every  line  of  the  stanza  is  lovely,  including  the  felicitous  Catho- 
lic image  of  the 

Holy-water  sprinkle  dipp'd  in  dew. 
Correggio  is  in  every  color  and  expression  of  the  picture. 


CUPID  USURPING  THE  THRONE  OF  JUPITER. 

Character,  Potency  in  Weakness  ;  Painter,  the  same. 

In  Satyr's  shape,  Antiope  he  snatch'd 
And  like  a  fire,  when  he  ^gine  essay'd ; 
A  shepherd,  when  Mnemosyne  he  catch'd  ; 
And  like  a  serpent  to  the  Thracian  maid. 
While  thus  on  earth  great  Jove  these  pageants  play'd, 
The  winged  boy  did  thrust  into  his  throne ; 
And  scoffing,  thus  unto  his  mother  said : 
*'  Lo  !  now  the  heavens  obey  to  me  alone. 
And  take  me  for  their  Jove,  whilst  Jove  to  earth  is  gone." 


SPENSER.  .79 


MARRIAGE  PROCESSION  OF  THE  THAMES  AND  MEDWAY. 

Character,  Genial  Strength,  Grace,  and  Luxury ,  Painter, 
Raphael. 

First  came  great  Neptune  with  his  three-fork'd  mace, 
That  rules  the  seas  and  makes  them  rise  or  fall ; 
His  dewy  locks  did  drop  with  brine  apace. 

Under  his  diadem  imperial ; 
And  by  his  side  his  queen,  with  coronal. 
Fair  Amphitrite,  most  divinely  fair, 

Whose  ivory  shoulders  weren  covered  all. 
As  with  a  robe,  with  her  own  silver  hair. 
And  deck'd  with  pearls  which  the  Indian  seas  for  her  prepare. 

These  marched  far  afore  the  other  crew, 
And  all  the  way  before  them  as  they  went 
Triton  his  trumpet  shrill  before  him  blew. 
For  goodly  triumph  and  great  jolliment, 
That  made  the  rocks  to  roar  as  they  were  rent. 

Or  take  another  part  of  the  procession,  with  dolphins  and  sea- 
nymphs  listening  as  they  went,  to 


Then  was  there  heard  a  most  celestial  sound 
Of  dainty  music,  which  did  next  ensue 
Before  the  spouse.     That  was  Arion  crowned  ; 
Who  playing  on  his  harp,  unto  him  drew 
The  ears  and  hearts  of  all  that  goodly  crew ; 
That  even  yet  the  dolphin  which  him  bore 
Through  the  ^Egean  seas  from  pirates  view 
Stood  still  by  him,  astonish'd  at  his  lore, 
And  all  the  raging  seas  for  joy  forgot  to  roar. 

So  went  he  playing  on  the  watery  plain.^^ 
26 «  So  went  he,"  &c.     This  sweet,  placid,  and  gently  progressing 


SPENSER. 


line  is  one  of  Spenser's  happy  samples  of  alliteration.     And 
how  emphatic  is  the  information — 

That  was  Anon,  crown'd. 


SIR  GUYON  BINDING  FUROR. 
Character,  Superhuman  Energy,  and  Rage  ;  Painter,  Michael  Angelo 

In  his  strong  arms  he  stiffly  him  embrac'd, 
Who,  him  gain-striving,  naught  at  all  prevail'd ; 
Then  him  to  ground  he  cast  and  rudely  haled. 
And  both  his  hands  fast  bound  behind  his  back, 
And  both  his  feet  in  fetters  to  an  iron  rack. 

With  hundred  iron  chains  he  did  him  bind. 
And  hundred  knots  that  him  did  sore  constrain ; 
Yet  his  great  iron  teeth  he  still  did  grind 
And  grimly  gnash,  threat'ning  revenge  in  vain. 
His  burning  eyes,  whom  bloody  streaks  did  stain. 
Stared  full  wide,  and  threw  forth  sparks  of  fire , 
And  more  for  rank  despite,  than  for  great  pain, 
Shak'd  his  long  locks,  colored  like  copper  wire,^'' 
And  bit  his  tawny  beard,  to  show  his  raging  ire. 

«'  "  Color'd  like  copper  loire."  A  felicity  suggested  perhaps  by 
the  rhyme.  It  has  all  the  look,  however,  of  a  copy  from  some 
Dainting ;  perhaps  one  of  Julio  Romano's. 


UNA  (OR  FAITH  IN  DISTRESS). 

Character,  Loving  and  Sorrowful  Purity  glorified. 
(May  I  say,  that  I  think  it  would  take  Raphael  and  Correggio 


SPENSER.  81 


united  to  paint  this,  on  account  of  the  exquisite  chiaroscuro  t 
Or  might  not  the  painter  of  the  Magdalen  have  it  all  to  himself?) 

Yet  she,  most  faithful  lady,  all  this  while ,^ 
Forsaken,  woful,  solitary  maid, 
Far  from  all  people's  press,  as  in  exile. 
In  wilderness  and  wasteful  deserts  stray'd. 
To  seek  her  knight,  who  subtily  betray'd 
Through  that  late  vision  which  the  enchanter  wrought, 
Had  her  abandon'd.     She,  of  naught  afraid, 
Through  woods  and  wasteness  wide  him  daily  sought. 
Yet  wishW  tidings  none  of  him  unto  her  brought 

One  day  nigh  weary  of  the  irksome  way. 
From  her  unhasty  beast  she  did  alight. 
And  on  the  grass  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 
In  secret  shadow  far  from  all  men's  sight  : 
From  her  fair  head  her  fillet  she  undight 
And  laid  her  stole  aside  :  her  angel's  face 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven  shinid  bright. 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place  i 
Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace. 

It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood 
A  ramping  lion  rushed  suddenly. 
Hunting  full  greedy  after  savage  blood  : 
Soon  as  the  royal  virgin  he  did  spy, 
With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily. 
To  have  at  once  devour'd  her  tender  corse ; 
But  to  the  prey  when  as  he  drew  more  nigh, 
His  bloody  rage  assuaged  with  remorse. 
And  with  the  sight  amaz'd,  forgot  his  furious  force. 

Instead  thereof  he  kiss'd  her  weary  feet. 
And  lick'd  her  lily  hand-with  fawning  tongue ; 
As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  weet. 
0  how  can  beauty  master  the  most  strong, 
And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong  ! 
Whose  yielded  pride  and  proud  submission. 
Still  dreading  death  when  she  had  marked  long 
Her  heart  'gan  melt  in  great  compassi6n : 
And  drizzling  tears  did  shed  for  pure  affection. 

"  The  lion,  lord  of  every  beast  in  field,^* 
Quoth  she,  "  his  princely  puissance  doth  abate. 
And  mighty  proud  to  humble  weak  does  yield, 
7 


SPENSER. 


Forgetful  of  the  hungry  rage,  which  late 
Him  prick' d  with  pity  of  my  sad  estate  — 
But  he  my  lion,  and  my  noble  lord. 
How  does  he  find  in  cruel  heart  to  hate 
Her,  that  him  lov'd,  and  ever  most  ador'd 
As  the  gdd  of  my  life  ?    Why  hath  he  me  abhorr'd  ?'*29 

88 "  Yet  she,"  &c.  Coleridge  quotes  this  stanza  as  "  a  good 
instance  of  what  he  means  "  in  the  following  remarks  in  his 
Lectures : — "  As  characteristic  of  Spenser,  I  would  call  your 
particular  attention  in  the  first  place  to  the  indescribable  sweet- 
ness and  fluent  projections  of  his  verse,  very  clearly  distinguish- 
able from  the  deeper  and  more  inwoven  harmonies  of  Shak- 
speare  and  Milton."  Good,  however,  as  the  stanza  is,  and 
beautiful  the  second  line,  it  does  not  appear  to  me  so  happy  an 
instance  of  what  Coleridge  speaks  of  as  many  which  he  might 
have  selected. 

The  verses  marked  in  the  second  stanza  are  one  of  the  most 
favorite  quotations  from  the  Faerie  Queene. 

29"  ^5  the  god  of  my  life,"  &c.  Pray  let  not  the  reader  consent 
to  read  this  first  half  of  the  line  in  any  manner  less  marked  and 
peremptory.  It  is  a  striking  instance  of  the  beauty  of  that 
"  acceleration  and  retardation  of  true  verse  "  which  Coleridge 
speaks  of.  There  is  to  be  a  hurry  on .  rfre  words  as  the,  and  a 
passionate  emphasis  and  passing  stop  on  the  word  god ;  and  so 
of  the  next  three  words. 


JUPITER  AND  MAIA. 

Character,  Young  and  Innocent  but  Conscious  and  Sensuous  Beauty  j 
Painter,  Correggio. 

Behold  how  goodly  my  fair  love  does  lie 

In  proud  humility  ! 
Like  unto  Maia,  when  as  Jove  her  took 
In  Tempe,  lying  on  the  flowery  grass, 
^Twixt  sleep  and  wake,  after  she  weary  was 
With  bathing  in  the  Acidalian  brook. 


SPENSER. 


NIGHT  AND  THE  WITCH  DUESSA, 

TAKING    SANSJOY   IN  THEIR    CHARIOT   TO    iESCULAPIUS   TO   BE    RESTORED 

TO   LIFE. 

Character,  Dreariness  of  Scene;    Horridness  of  Aspect  and  Wicked 
Beauty,  side  by  side;  Painter,  Julio  Romano. 

Then  to  her  iron  waggon  she  betakes 
And  with  her  bears  the  foul  well-favored  witch  : 
Through  mirksome  air  her  ready  way  she  makes. 
Her  twofold  team  (of  which  two  black  as  pitch 
And  two  were  brown,  yet  each  to  each  unlich*) 
Bid  softly  swim  away,  nor  ever  stamp 
Unless  she  chanc'd  their  stubborn  mouths  to  twitch ; 
Then,  foaming  tar,  their  bridles  they  would  champ, 
And  trampling  the  fine  element  would  fiercely  ramp. 

So  well  they  sped,  that  they  be  come  at  length 
Unto  the  place  whereas  the  Paynim  lay 
Devoid  of  outward  sense  and  native  strength, 
C>  Cover'd  with  charmed  cloud  from  view  of  day 

And  sight  of  men,  since  his  late  luckless  fray. 
His  cruel  wounds,  with  cmddy  blood  congeaPd, 
They  binden  up  so  wisely  as  they  may. 
And  handle  softly,  till  they  can  be  heal'd. 
So  lay  him  in  her  chariot,  close  in  night  conceal'd. 

And  all  the  while  she  stood  upon  the  ground. 
The  wakeful  dogs  did  never  cease  to  bay; 
As  firiving  warning  of  the  unwonted  sound, 
With  which  her  iron  wheels  did  they  affray. 
And  her  dark  griesly  look  them  much  dismay. 
The  messenger  Oj   death,  the  ghastly  owl. 
With  dreary  shrieks  did  also  her  bewray  ; 
And  hungry  wolves  continually  did  howl 
At  her  abhorred  face,  so  filthy  and  so  foul.3o 

*  "Each  to  each  unlich."     Unlike. 


84  SPENSER. 


Then  turning  back  in  silence  soft  they  stole, 
And  brought  the  heavy  corse  with  easy  pace 
To  yawning  gulf  of  deep  Avernus  hole. 
By  that  same  hole,  an  entrance,  dark  and  base. 
With  smoke  and  sulphur  hiding  all  the  place, 
Descends  to  hell :  there  creature  never  pass'd 
That  back  returned  without  heavenly  grace ; 
But  dreadful  furies  which  their  chains  have  brast. 
And  damned  sprites  sent  forth,  to  make  ill  men  aghast. 

By  that  same  way  the  direful  dames  do  drive 
Their  mournful  chariot  filVd  with  rusty  hlood,^^ 
And  down  to  Pluto's  house  are  come  belive : 
Which  passing  through,  on  every  side  them  stood 
The  trembling  ghosts  with  sad  amazed  mood. 
Chattering  their  iron  teeth,  and  staring  wide 
With  stony  eyes  ;  and  all  the  hellish  brood 
Of  fiends  infernal  flock'd  on  every  side, 
To  gaze  on  earthly  wight,  that  with  the  night  durst  ride. 

30  "  So  filthy  and  so  foul."— Why  he  should  say  this  of  Night, 
except,  perhaps,  in  connection  with  the  witch,  I  cannot  say.  It 
seems  to  me  to  hurt  the  "  abhorred  face."  Night,  it  is  true,  may 
be  reviled,  or  made  grand  or  lovely,  as  a  poet  pleases.  There 
is  both  classical  and  poetical  warrant  for  all.  But  the  goddess 
with  whom  the  witch  dared  to  ride  (as  the  poet  finely  says  at  the 
close)  should  have  been  exhibited,  it  would  seem,  in  a  more 
awful,  however  frightful  guise. 

31  ^^  Their  mournful  chariot  filVd  with  rusty  blood." — There  is  some- 
thing wonderfully  dreary,  strange,  and  terrible,  in  this  picture. 
By  "  rusty  blood"  (which  is  very  horrid)  he  must  mean  the 
blood  half  congealing ;  altered  in  patches,  like  rusty  iron.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  the  word  "  rusty,"  as  Warton  observes,  "  seems 
to  have  conveyed  the  idea  of  somewhat  very  loathsome  and  hor- 
rible to  our  author." 


SPENSER.  8^ 


VENUS  IN  SEARCH  OF  CUPID,  COMING  TO  DIANA. 

Character,    Contrast  of  Impassioned    and   Unimpassioned  Beauty — 
Cold  and  Warm  Colors  mixed  ;  Painter,  Titian. 

(Yet  I  know  not  whether  Annibal  Caracci  would  not  better 
Buit  the  demand  for  personal  expression  in  this  instance.  But 
the  recollection  of  Titian's  famous  Bath  of  Diana  is  forced 
upon  us.) 

Shortly  unto  the  wasteful  woods  she  came. 
Whereas  she  found  the  goddess  with  her  crew, 
After  late  chace  of  their  embrewed  game, 
Sitting  beside  a  fountain  in  a  rew ; 
Some  of  them  washing  with  the  liquid  dew 
From  off  their  dainty  limbs  the  dusty  sweat 
And  soil,  which  did  defile  their  lovely  hue ; 
Others  lay  shaded  from  the  scorching  heat; 
The  rest  upon  her  person  gave  attendance  great. 

She  having  hung  upon  a  bough  on  high 
Her  bow  and  painted  quiver,  had  unlac'd 
Her  silver  buskins  from  her  nimble  thigh. 
And  her  lank  loins  ungirt  and  breasts  unbrac'd, 
After  her  heat  the  breathing  cold  to  taste  ; 
Her  golden  locks,  that  late  in  tresses  bright 
Embraided  were  for  hindering  of  her  haste. 
Now  loose  about  her  shoulders  lay  undight. 
And  were  with  sweet  ambrosia  all  besprinkled  light. 

Soon  as  she  Venus  saw  behind  her  back. 
She  was  asham'd  to  be  so  loose  surpris'd. 
And  wak'd  half  wrath  against  her  damsels  slack 
That  had  not  her  thereof  before  aviz'd. 
But  suffer'd  her  so  carelessly  disguiz'd 
Be  overtaken  :  soon  her  garments  loose  33 
Upgathering  in  her  bosom  she  comprized. 
Well  as  she  might,  and  to  the  goddess  rose 
Whiles  all  her  nymphs  did  like  a  garland  her  melose, 


86  SPENSER. 


"  Soon  her  garments  loose,"  &c.— This  picture  is  from  Ovid  , 
but  the  lovely  and  beautifully  colored  comparison  of  the  gar- 
land is  Spenser's  own. 


MAY. 


Character,  Budding  Beauty  in  male  and  female  ;  Animal  Passion ; 
Luminous  Vernal  coloring  ;  Painter,  the  same. 

Then  came  fair  May,  the  fairest  maid  on  groundj33 
Deck'd  all  with  dainties  of  her  season's  pride, 
And  throwing  jiowers  out  of  her  lap  around : 
Upon  two  brethren's  shoulders  she  did  ride, 
The  Twins  of  Leda  ;  which,  on  either  side. 
Supported  her  like  to  their  sovereign  queen. 
Lord  !  how  all  creatures  laughed  when  her  they  spied. 
And  leaped  and  danced  as  they  had  ravished  been  ; 
And  Cupid^s  self  about  her  fiiittihrSd  all  in  green. 

33"  Then  came,"  Slc. — Raphael  would  have  delighted  (but  Titian's 
colors  would  be  required)  in  the  lovely  and  liberal  uniformity  of 
this  picture, — the  young  goddess  May  supported  aloft ;  the  two 
brethren  on  each  side  ;  animals  and  flowers  below ;  birds  in  the 
air,  and  Cupid  streaming  overhead  in  his  green  mantle.  Ima- 
gine the  little  fellow,  with  a  body  of  Titian's  carnation,  tumbling 
in  the  air,  and  playfully  holding  the  mantle,  which  is  flying 
amply  behind,  rather  than  concealing  him. 

This  charming  stanza  beats  the  elegant  but  more  formal  invo- 
cation to  May  by  Milton,  who  evidently  had  it  in  his  recollec- 
tion. Indeed  the  latte'r  is  almost  a  compilation  from  various 
poets.     It  is,  however,  too  beautiful  to  be  omitted  here. 

Now  the  bright  morning-star,  day's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip  and  the  pale  primrose. 

Hail  beauteous  May,  that  dost  inspire 
Mirth,  and  youth,  and  warm  desire ! 


SPENSER.  8T 


Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing. 
Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song. 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 

Spenser's  "  Lord !  how  all  creatures  laugh'd  "  is  an  instance 
of  joyous  and  impulsive  expression  not  common  with  English 
poets,  out  of  the  pale  of  comedy.  They  have  geniality  in 
abundance,  but  not  animal  spirits. 


AN  ANGEL,  WITH  A  PILGRIM  AND  A  FAINTING  KNIGHT. 

Character^  Active  Superhuman  Beauty^  with  the  finest  coloring  and 
contrast ;  Painter,  the  same. 

During  the  while  that  Guyon  did  abide 
In  Mammon's  house,  the  palmer,  whom  whilere 
That  wanton  maid  of  passage  had  denied. 
By  further  search  had  passage  found  elsewhe:*e ; 
And  being  on  his  way,  approached  near 
While  Guyon  lay  in  trance  :  when  suddenly 
He  heard  a  voice  that  called  loud  and  clear, 
"  Come  hither,  hither,  0  come  hastily  !" 
That  all  the  fields  resounded  with  the  rueful  cry. 

The  palmer  leant  his  ear  unto  the  noise. 
To  weet  who  call'd  so  importun^dly  ; 
Again  he  heard  a  more  enforced  voice. 
That  bade  him  come  in  haste.     He  by-and-bye 
His  feeble  feet  directed  to  the  cry ; 
Which  to  that  shady  delve  him  brought  at  last. 
Where  Mammon  earst  did  sun  his  treasury : 
There  the  good  Guyon  he  found  slumbering  fast 
In  senseless  dream  ;  which  sight  at  first  him  sore  aghast 

Beside  his  head  there  sat  a  fair  young  man,^* 
Of  wondrous  beauty  and  of  freshest  years. 
Whose  tender  bud  to  blossom  new  began, 
And  flourish  far  above  his  equal  peers ; 
His  snowy  front,  curled  with  golden  hairs. 


fiS  SPENSER. 


Like  Phoebus'  face  adorn'd  with  sunny  rays, 
Divinely  shone  ;  and  two  sharp  winged  shears. 
Decked  with  diverse  plumes,  like  painted  jays, 
Were  fixed  at  his  back  to  cut  his  airy  ways 

34  *' Beside  his  head,"  &c.— The  superhuman  beauty  of  this  angel 
should  be  Raphael's,  yet  the  picture,  as  a  whole,  demands  Ti- 
tian ;  and  the  painter  of  Bacchus  was  not  incapable  of  the  most 
imaginative  exaltation  of  countenance.  As  to  the  angel's  body, 
no  one  could  have  painted  it  like  him, — nor  the  beautiful  jay's 
wings ;  not  to  mention  the  contrast  between  the  pilgrim's  weeds 
and  the  knight's  armor.  See  a  picture  of  Venus  blinding  Cupid, 
beautifully  engraved  by  Sir  Robert  Strange,  in  which  the  Cupid 
has  variegated  wings. 


AURORA  AND  TITHONUS. 

Character,  Young  and  Genial  Beauty,  contrasted  with  ^ge, — the  ac- 
cessories full  of  the  mixed  warmth  and  chillness  of  morning  ;  Pain- 
ter, Guido. 

The  joyous  day  'gan  early  to  appear, 
And  fair  Aurora  from  the  dewy  bed 
Of  aged  Tithon  'gan  herself  to  rear 
With  rosy  cheeks,  for  shame  as  blushing  red. 
Her  golden  locks,  for  haste,  were  loosely  shed 
About  her  ears,  when  Una  did  her  mark 
Climb  to  her  chariot,  all  with  flowers  spread, 
From  heaven  high  to  chase  the  cheerless  dark : 
With  merry  note  her  loud  salutes  the  mounting  lark. 


SPENSER.  89 


THE  BRIDE  AT  THE  ALTAR. 

Character^  Flvahed  yet  Lady-like  Beauty,  with  ecstatic  Angels  regard' 
ing  her  ;  Painter,  the  same. 

Behold,  while  she  before  the  altar  stands, 
Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speaks, 
And  blesses  her  with  his  two  happy  hands. 
How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheeks ! 
And  the  pure  snow,  with  goodly  vermeil  stain. 

Like  crimson  dyed  in  grain ! 
That  ev'n  the  angels,  which  continually 
About  the  sacred  altar  do  remain, 
Forget  their  service  and  about  her  fly, 
Oft  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seems  more  fair  35 
The  more  they  on  it  stare ; 
But  her  sad  eyes,  still  fastened  on  the  ground. 
Are  governed  with  goodly  modesty, 
That  suffers  not  one  look  to  glance  awry. 
Which  may  let  in  a  little  thought  unsound. 

36  "  Oft  peeping  in  her  face,"  &c. — I  cannot  think  the  words  peep- 
ing and  stare,  the  best  which  the  poet  could  have  used ;  but  he 
is  aggravating  the  beauties  of  his  bride  in  a  long  epithalamium, 
and  sacrificing  everything  to  her  superiority.  The  third  line  is 
felicitous. 


A  NYMPH  BATHING. 

Character y  Ecstacy  of  Conscious  and  Luxurious  Beauty  ;  Paintet 
Guide. 

— Her  fair  locks  which  formerly  were  bound 

Up  in  one  knot,  she  low  adown  did  loose, 

Which  flowing  long  and  thick,  her  cloth' d  around, 

And  the  ivory  in  golden  mantle  goum'd , 


90     "^  SPENSER. 


So  that  fair  spectacle  was  from  him  reft, 
Yet  that  which  reft  it,  no  less  fair  was  found : 
So  hid  in  locks  and  waves  from  looker's  theft, 
JVaught  but  her  lovely  face  she  for  his  looking  left. 

Withal  she  laughed,  and  she  blush' d  withal,^ 
That  blushing  to  her  laughter  gave  more  grace. 
And  laughter  to  her  blushing. 

3«  **  Withal  she  laughed,'*  &c. — Perhaps  this  is  the  loveliest  thing 
of  the  kind,  mixing  the  sensual  with  the  graceful,  that  ever  was 
painted.  The  couplet,  So  hid  in  locks  and  waves,  &c.,  would  be 
an  excessive  instance  of  the  sweets  of  alliteration,  could  we  bear 
to  miss  a  particle  of  it. 


THE  CAVE  OF  DESPAIR. 

Character,  Savage  and  Forlorn  Scenery,  occupied  by  Squalid  Misery 
Painter,  Salvator  Rosa. 

Ere  long  they  come  where  that  same  wicked  wight 
His  dwelling  has,  low  in  a  hollow  cave. 
Far  underneath  a  craggy  cliff  ypight. 
Dark,  doleful,  dreary,  like  a  greedy  grave. 
That  still  for  carrion  carcasses  doth  crave  ; 
On  top  whereof  ay  dwelt  the  ghastly  owl, 
Shrieking  his  baleful  note,  which  ever  drave 
Far  from  that  haunt  all  other  cheerful  fowl. 
And  all  about  it  wand'ring  ghosts  did  wail  and  howl : 

And  all  about  old  stocks  and  stubs  of  trees. 
Whereon  nor  fruit  nor  leaf  was  ever  seen. 
Did  hang  upon  the  ragged  rocky  knees. 
On  which  had  many  wretches  hanged  been. 
Whose  carcasses  were  scattered  on  the  green. 
And  thrown  about  the  cliffs.     Arrived  there. 
That  bare-head  knight,  for  dread  and  doleful  teen,* 
Would  fain  have  fled,  nor  durst  approachen  near. 
But  th'  other  forc'd  him  stay  and  comforted  in  fear. 

*  Teen — anxiety. 


SPENSER.  91 


Looked  deadly  dull,  and  stared  as  astoun'd  ; 
His  raw-bone  cheeks,  through  penury  and  pine, 
Were  shrunk  into  his  jaws,  as  he  did  never  dine. 
That  darksome  cave  they  enter  where  they  find 
That  cursed  man  low  sitting  on  the  ground. 
Musing  full  sadly  in  his  sullen  mind  ; 
His  griesly  locks,  long  growen  and  unbound. 
Disordered  hung  about  his  shoulders  round. 
And  hid  his  face  through  which  the  hollow  eyne. 

His  garment  naught  but  many  ragged  clouts. 
With  thorns  together  pinn'd  and  patched  was. 
The  which  his  naked  sides  he  wrapp'd  about ; 
And  him  beside  there  lay  upon  the  grass 
A  dreary  corse,  whose  life  away  did  pass, 
All  wallow'd  in  his  own  yet  lukewarm  blood. 
That  from  his  wound  yet  welled  fresh  alas  ! 
In  which  a  rusty  knife  fast  fixed  stood. 
And  made  an  open  passage  for  the  gushing  flood. 

Still  finer  than  this  description  are  the  morbid  sophistry  and 
the  fascinations  of  terror  that  follow  it  in  the  original  -,  but  as 
they  are  less  poetical  or  pictorial  than  argumentative,  the  extract 
is  limited  accordingly.  There  is  a  tradition  that  when  Sir 
Philip  Sidney  read  this  part  of  the  Faerie  Queene,  he  fell  into 
transports  of  admiration. 


A  KNIGHT  IN  BRIGHT  ARMOR  LOOKING  INTO  A  CAVE. 

Character,  A  deep  effect  of  Chiaroscuro,  making  deformity  visible 
Painter,  Rembrandt. 

But  full  of  fire  and  greedy  hardiment. 
The  youthful  knight  would  not  for  aught  be  stay'd. 
But  forth  unto  the  darksome  hole  he  went. 
And  looked  in.     His  glistering  armor  made 
A  little  glooming  light,  much  like  a  shade  ,*  37 
£y  which  he  saw  the  ugly  monster  plain. 
Half  like  a  serpent  horribly  display'd. 
But  th'  other  half  did  woman's  shape  retain. 
Most  loathsome,  filthy  foul,  and  full  of  vile  disdain. 


92  SPENSER. 


37  «  A  little  glooming  light,  much  like  a  «Aa</e."— Spenser  is  very 
fond  of  this  effect,  and  has  repeatedly  painted  it.  I  am  not 
aware  that  anybody  noticed  it  before  him.  It  is  evidently  the 
original  of  the  passage  in  Milton  : — 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom. 


Observe  the  pause  at  the  words  looked  in. 


MALBECCO  SEES  HELLENORE  DANCING  WITH  THE  SATYRS. 

Character,  Luxurious  Abandonment  to  Mirth  ;  Painter,  JVicholas 
Poussin. 

— Afterwards,  close  creeping  as  he  might. 
He  in  a  bush  did  hide  his  fearful  head : 
The  jolly  satyrs,  full  of  fresh  delight, 
Came  dancing  forth,  and  with  them  nimbly  led 
Fair  Hellenore,  with  garlands  all  bespread. 
Whom  their  May-lady  they  had  newly  made  : 
She,  proud  of  that  new  honor  which  they  redd,* 
And  of  their  lovely  fellowship  full  glad, 
Danc'd  lively :  and  her  face  did  with  a  laurel  shade. 

The  silly  man  then  in  a  thicket  lay. 
Saw  all  this  goodly  sport,  and  grieved  sore. 
Yet  durst  he  not  against  it  do  or  say. 
But  did  his  heart  with  bitter  thoughts  engore 
To  see  the  unkindness  of  his  Hellenore. 
All  day  they  danced  with  great  lustyhead, 
And  with  their  horned  feet  the  green  grass  wore, 
The  whiles  their  goats  upon  the  browses  fed, 
Till  drooping  Phoebus  'gan  to  hide  his  golden  head. 

*  "  That  new  honor  which  they  redd." — Areaded,  awarded. 


SPENSER.  93 


LANDSCAPE, 

WITH  DAMSELS  CONVEYING  A  WOUNDED    SQUIRE   ON  HIS  HOESE. 

Character,  Select  Southern  Elegance,  with  an  intimation  of  fine  Ar- 
chitecture ;  Painter,  Claude,  {Yet  "mighty^*  woods  hardly  belong 
to  him.) 

Into  that  forest  far  they  thence  him  led, 
Where  was  their  dwelling,  in  a  pleasant  glade 
With  mountains  round  about  environed  ; 
And  mighty  woods  which  did  the  valley  shade 
And  like  a  stately  theatre  it  made, 
Spreading  itself  into  a  spacious  plain  ; 
And  in  the  midst  a  little  river  play'd 
Amongst  the  pumy  stones,  which  seem'd  to  plain 
With  gentle  murmur,  that  his  course  they  did  restrain. 

Beside  the  same  a  dainty  place  there  lay. 

Planted  with  myrtle  trees  and  laurels  green. 

In  which  the  birds  sung  many  a  lovely  lay 

Of  God's  high  praise  and  of  their  sweet  love's  teen. 

As  it  an  earthly  paradise  had  been  ; 

In  whose  enclosed  shadows  there  was  pight 

A  fair  pavilion,  scarcely  to  be  seen. 


THE  NYMPHS  AND  GRACES  DANCING  TO  A  SHEPHERD'S 
PIPE ;  OR, 

APOTHEOSIS  OF  A  POET'S  MISTRESS. 

Character,  JVakedness  without  Impudency :  Multitudinous  and  Innocent 
Delight ;  Exaltation  of  the  principal  Person  from  Circumstances, 
rather  than  her  own  Ideality  ;  Painter,  Albano. 

Unto  this  place  whereas  the  elfin  knight 
Approach'd,  him  seemed  that  the  merry  sound 


94  SPENSER 


Of  a  shrill  pipe  he  playing  heard  on  height. 
And  many  feet  fast  thumping  the  hollow  ground ; 
That  through  the  woods  their  echo  did  rebound ; 
He  higher  drew,  to  weet  what  might  it  be ; 
There  he  a  troop  of  ladies  dancing  found 
Full  merrily,  and  making  gladful  glee, 
And  in  the  midst  a  shepherd  piping  he  did  see. 

He  durst  not  enter  into  the  open  green, 

For  dread  of  them  unwares  to  be  descry'd. 

For  breaking  off  their  dance,  if  he  were  seen ; 

But  in  the  covert  of  the  wood  did  bide. 

Beheld  of  all,  yet  of  them  unespied : 

There  he  did  see  (that  pleas'd  much  his  sight 

That  even  he  himself  his  eyes  envied) 

A  hundred  naked  maidens^  lily  white. 

All  ranged  in  a  ring,  and  dancing  in  delight. 

All  they  without  were  ranged  in  a  ring 
And  danced  round,  but  in  the  midst  of  them 
Three  other  ladies  did  both  dance  and  sing. 
The  whilst  the  rest  them  round  about  did  hem. 
And  like  a  garland  did  in  compass  stem  ; 
And  in  the  midst  of  those  same  three  were  placed 
Another  damsel,  as  a  precious  gem 
Amidst  a  ring  most  richly  well  enchaced. 
That  with  her  goodly  presence  all  the  rest  much  graceo. 

Those  were  the  Graces,  daughters  of  delight. 
Handmaids  of  Venus,  which  are  wont  to  haunt 
Upon  this  hill,  and  dance  there  day  and  night ; 
Those  three  to  man  all  gifts  of  grace  do  graunt. 
And  all  that  Venus  in  herself  doth  vaunt 
Is  borrowed  of  them  ;   but  that  fair  one 
That  in  the  midst  was  placed  paravaunt. 
Was  she  to  whom  that  shepherd  pip'd  alone. 
That  made  him  pipe  so  merrily  as  never  none. 

She  was,  to  weet,  that  jolly  shepherd's  lass 
Which  piped  there  unto  that  merry  rout; 
That  jolly  shepherd,  which  there  piped,  was 
Poor  Colin  Clout  (who  knows  not  Colin  Clout  ?) ; 
He  pip'd  apace,  whilst  they  him  danc'd  about. 
Pipe,  jolly  shepherd  !  pipe  thou  now  apace 
Unto  thy  love,  that  made  thee  low  to  lout ; 
Thy  love  is  present  there  with  thee  in  place. 
Thy  love  is  there  advaunst  to  be  another  graee.^ 


SPENSER.  95 


M  «  Thy  love  is  there  advanc'd,"  &c.— And  there  she  remains, 
dancmg  in  the  midst  of  the  Graces  for  ever,  herself  a  Grace, 
made  one  by  the  ordinance  of  the  poor  but  great  poet  who  here 
addresses  himself  under  his  pastoral  title,  and  justly  prides  him- 
self on  the  power  of  conferring  immortality  on  his  love.  The 
apostrophe  is  as  affecting  as  it  is  elevating,  and  the  whole  scpfle 
conceived  in  the  highest  possible  spirit  of  mixed  wildness  and 
delicacy. 


A  PLUME  OF  FEATHERS  AND  AN  ALMOND  TREE. 

In  this  instance,  which  is  the  one  he  adduces  in  proof  of  his 
remark  on  the  picturesque,  the  reader  must  agree  with  Cole- 
ridge, that  the  description  (I  mean  of  the  almond  tree),  however 
charming,  is  not  fit  for  a  picture :  it  wants  accessories ;  to  say 
nothing  of  the  reference  to  the  image  illustrated,  and  the  feeling 
of  too  much  minuteness  and  closeness  in  the  very  distance. 
Who  is  to  paint  the  tender  locks  "  every  one,"  and  the  whisper 
of  "  every  little  breath  ?" 

Upon  the  top  of  all  his  lofty  crest 

A  bunch  of  hairs  discolor'd  diversely, 

With  sprinkled  pearl  and  gold  full  richly  dress'd, 

Did  shake  and  seem  to  dance  for  jollity. 

Like  to  an  almond  tree,  ymounted  high. 

On  top  of  green  Selinis  all  alone. 

With  blossoms  brave  bedecked  daintily. 

Whose  tender  locks  do  tremble  every  one. 
At  every  little  breath  that  under  heaven  is  blown. 

What  an  exquisite  last  line  !  but  the  whole  stanza  is  perfec- 
tion. The  word  jollity  seems  to  show  the  plumpness  of  the 
plume ;  what  the  fop  in  Moliere  calls  its  embonpoint. 

Hola,  porteurs,  hola !  La,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la.  Je  pense  que  ces  marauds- 
la  ont  dessein  de  me  briser  a  force  de  heurter  contre  les  murailles  et  les 
par^s. 

1  Porteur.  Dame,  c'est  que  la  porte  est  6troite.  Vous  avez  voulu  aussi 
que  nous  soyons  entres  jusqu'ici. 


96  SPENSER. 


Mascarille.  Je  le  crois  bien,  Voudriez-vous,  faquins,  que  j'exposasse 
I'embonpoint  de  mes  plumes  aux  inclemences  de  la  saison  pluvieuse,  et  que 
j'allasse  imprimer  mes  souliers  en  boue  ? — Les  Precieuses  Ridicules^  sc.  7. 

[Mascarille  (to  the  sedan  chairmen).  Stop,  stop  !  What  the  devil  is  all 
this  ?     Am  I  to  be  beaten  to  pieces  against  the  walls  and  pavement  ? 

Chairman,  Why  you  see  the  passage  is  narrow.  You  told  us  to  bring 
you  right  in. 

Mascarille.  Unquestionably.  Would  you  have  me  expose  the  embon- 
point of  my  feathers  to  the  inclemency  of  the  rainy  season,  and  leave  the 
impression  of  my  pumps  in  the  mud  ?] 


Our  gallery  shall  close  with  a  piece  of 

ENCHANTED  MUSIC. 

Eftsoons  they  heard  a  most  melodious  sound 
Of  all  that  might  delight  a  dainty  ear. 
Such  as,  at  once,  might  not  on  living  ground. 
Save  in  this  paradise  be  heard  elsewhere : 
Right  hard  it  was  for  wight  which  did  it  hear 
To  weet  what  manner  music  that  might  be. 
For  all  that  pleasing  is  to  living  ear 
Was  there  consorted  in  one  harmony; 
Birds,  voices,  instruments,  winds,  waters,  all  agree. 

The  joyous  birds,  shrouded  in  cheerful  shade 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempred  sweet : 
TK  angelical,  soft,  trembling  voices  made 
To  iK  instruments  divine  respondence  meet ; 
The  silver  sounding  instruments  did  meet 
With  the  base  murmur  of  the  water's  fall; 
The  water's  fall,  with  difference  discreet, 
JVow  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call ; 
The  gentle  warbling  wind  low  answered  to  all.^9 

s«  «  The  gentle  warbling  wind,"  &c.  This  exquisite  stanza  is  a 
specimen  of  perfect  modulation,  upon  the  principles  noticed  in 
the  description  of  Archimago^s  Hermitage.  The  reader  may, 
perhaps,  try  it  upon  them.  "  Compare  it,"  says  Upton,  "  with 
Tasso's  Gierusalemme  Liberata,  canto  16,  st.  12."  Readers 
who  understand  Italian  will  gladly  compare  it,  and  see  how  far 
their  countryman  has  surpassed  the  sweet  poet  of  the  south. 


MARLOWE.  91 


MARLOWE, 

BORN,    ACCORDING   TO    MALONE,  ABOUT    1565, DIED,  1593. 


If  ever  there  was  a  born  poet,  Marlowe  was  one.  He  perceived 
things  in  their  spiritual  as  well  as  material  relations,  and  im- 
pressed  them  with  a  corresponding  felicity.  Rather,  he  struck 
them  as  with  something  sweet  and  glowing  that  rushes  by ; — 
perfumes  from  a  censer, — glances  of  love  and  beauty.  And  he 
could  accumulate  images  into  as  deliberate  and  lofty  a  grandeur. 
Chapman  said  of  him,  that  he  stood 

Up  to  the  chin  in  the  Pierian  flood. 

Drayton  describes  him  as  if  inspired  by  the  recollection : — 

Next  Marlowe,  bathed  in  the  Thespian  springs. 
Had  in  him  those  brave  translunary  things, 
That  the  first  poets  had  ;  his  raptures  were 
All  air  and  fire,  which  made  his  verses  clear 
For  that  fine  madness  still  he  did  retain. 
Which  rightly  should  possess  a  poefs  brain. 

But  this  happy  genius  appears  to  have  had  as  unhappy  a  will, 
which  obscured  his  judgment.  It  made  him  condescend  to 
write  fustian  for  the  town,  in  order  to  rule  over  it ;  subjected 
him  to  the  charge  of  impiety,  probably  for  nothing  but  too  scorn- 
fully treating  irreverent  notions  of  the  Deity  ;  and  brought  him, 
in  the  prime  of  his  life,  to  a  violent  end  in  a  tavern.  His  plays 
abound  in  wilful  and  self- worshipping  speeches,  and  every  one 
of  them  turns  upon  some  kind  of  ascendency  at  the  expense  of 
other  people.  He  was  the  head  of  a  set  of  young  men  from  the 
university,  the  Peeles,  Greens,  and  others,  all  more  or  less  pos- 
sessed of  a  true  poetical  vein,  who,  bringing  scholarship  to  the 
8 


MARLOWE. 


theatre,  were  intoxicated  with  the  new  graces  they  threw  on  the 
old  bombast,  carried  to  their  height  the  vices  as  well  as  wit  of 
the  town,  and  were  destined  to  see,  with  indignation  and  aston- 
ishment, their  work  taken  out  of  their  hands,  and  Jone  better,  by 
the  uneducated  interloper  from  Stratford- upon- A\  on. 

Marlowe  enjoys  the  singular  and  (so  far)  unaccountable 
honor  of  being  the  only  English  writer  to  whom  Shakspeare 
seems  to  have  alluded  with  approbation.  In  As  You  Like  It^ 
Phcsbe  says. 

Dead  Shepherd  !  now  I  know  thy  saw  of  might, — 
"  Who  ever  lov'd  that  lov'd  not  at  first  sight  ?" 

The  "  saw  "  is  in  Marlowe's  Hero  and  Leander,  a  poem  not 
comparable  with  his  plays. 

The  ranting  part  of  Marlowe's  reputation  has  been  chiefly 
owing  to  the  tragedy  of  Tamhurlaino,  a  passage  in  which  is 
laughed  at  in  Henry  the  Fourth,  and  has  become  famous.  Tam- 
burlaine  cries  out  to  the  captive  monarchs  whom  he  has  yoked 
to  his  car, — 

Hollo,  ye  pampered  jades  of  Asia, 
W^hat !  can  ye  draw  but  twenty  miles  a-day, 
And  have  so  proud  a  chariot  at  your  heels, 
And  such  a  coachman  as  great  Tamburlaine  ? 

Then  follows  a  picture  drawn  with  real  poetry : 

The  horse  that  guide  the  golden  eye  of  heaven. 

And  blow  the  morning  from  their  nostrils  (read  nosterils). 

Making  their  fiery  gait  above  the  clouds, 

Are  not  so  honor'd  in  their  governor, 

As  you,  ye  slaves,  in  mighty  Tamburlaine. 

It  has  latterly  been  thought,  that  a  genius  like  Marlowe  could 
have  had  no  hand  in  a  play  so  bombastic  as  this  huffing  tragedy. 
But  besides  the  weighty  and  dignified,  though  monotonous  tone 
of  his  versification  in  many  places  (what  Ben  Jonson,  very  ex- 
actly as  well  as  finely,  calls  "  Marlowe's  mighty  /zwe,")  there 
are  passages  in  it  of  force  and  feeling,  of  which  I  doubt  whether 
any  of  his  contemporaries  were  capable  in  so  sustained  a  degree, 
though  Green  and  Peele  had  felicitous  single  lines,  and  occa- 


MARLOWE.  99 


sionally  a  refined  sweetness.  Take,  for  instance,  the  noble 
verses  to  be  found  in  the  description  of  Tamburlaine  himself, 
which  probably  suggested  to  Milton  his  "  Atlantean  shoulders  " 
— "  fit  to  bear  mightiest  monarchies  " — and  to  Beaumont  a  fine 
image,  which  the  reader  will  see  in  his  Melancholy : — 

Of  stature  tall  and  straightly  fashioned 

Like  his  desire  lift  upward  and  divine. 

So  large  of  limbs,  his  joints  so  strongly  knit, 

Such  breadth  of  shoulders  as  might  mainly  bear 

Old  Atlas'  burthen  : — 

Pale  of  complexion,  wrought  in  him  with  passion^  &c. 

By  "  passion  "  we  are  to  understand,  not  anger,  but  deep  emo- 
tions. Peele  or  Green  might  possibly  have  written  the  beauti* 
ful  verse  that  closes  these  four  lines  : 

Kings  of  Argier,  Moroccus,  and  of  Fesse, 
You  that  have  marched  with  happy  Tamburlaine 
As  far  as  from  the  frozen  place  of  heaven 
Unto  the  watery  mornings  ruddy  bower : — 

bat  the  following  is  surely  Marlowe's  own  : — 

As  princely  lions  when  they  rouse  themselves. 
Stretching  their  paws  and  threatening  herds  of  beasts. 
So  in  his  armor  looketh  Tamburlaine. — 

And  in  the  following  is  not  only  a  hint  of  the  scornful  part  of 
his. style,  such  as  commences  the  extract  from  the  Jew  of  Malta^ 
but  the  germ  of  those  lofty  and  harmonious  nomenclatures,  which 
have  been  thought  peculiar  to  Milton. 

So  from  the  east  unto  the  farthest  west 
Shall  Tamburlaine  extend  his  puissant  arm. 
The  gallies  and  those  pilling  brigandines 
That  yearly  sail  to  the  Venetian  gulf 
And  h  ")ver  in  the  Straits  for  Christian  wreck, 
Shall  lie  at  anchor  in  the  isle  Arant, 
Until  the  Persian  fleet  and  men  of  wars. 
Sailing  along  the  Oriental  sea. 
Have  fetcK d  about  the  Indian  continent. 
Even  from  Persepolis  to  Mexico, 
And  thence  unto  the  Straits  of  Jub altar. 


100  MARLOWE. 


Milton  never  surpassed  the  elevation  of  that  close.  Who  also 
but  Marlowe  is  likely  to  have  written  the  fine  passage  extracted 
into  this  volume,  under  the  title  of  ^'•Beauty  heyond  Expression" 
in  which  the  thought  argues  as  much  expression,  as  the  style  a 
confident  dignity  ?  Tamburlaine  was  most  likely  a  joint-stock 
piece,  got  up  from  the  manager's  chest  by  Marlowe,  Nash,  and 
perhaps  half-a-dozen  others  ;  for  there  are  two  consecutive  plays 
on  the  subject,  and  the  theatres  of  our  own  time  are  not  unac- 
quainted with  this  species  of  manufacture. 

But  I  am  forgetting  the  plan  of  my  book.  Marlowe,  like 
Spenser,  is  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  poet  v/ho  had  no  native  pre- 
cursors. As  Spenser  is  to  be  criticised  with  an  eye  to  his 
poetic  ancestors,  who  had  nothing  like  the  Faerie  Queene,  so  is 
Marlowe  with  reference  to  the  authors  of  Gorboduc.  He  got 
nothing  from  them ;  he  prepared  the  way  for  the  versification, 
the  dignity,  and  the  pathos  of  his  successors,  who  have  nothing 
finer  of  the  kind  to  show  than  the  death  of  Edward  the  Second 
— ^not  Shakspeare  himself: — and  his  imagination,  like  Spenser's, 
haunted  those  purely  poetic  regions  of  ancient  fabling  and  mod- 
ern rapture,  of  beautiful  forms  and  passionate  expressions,  which 
they  were  the  first  to  render  the  common  property  of  inspiration, 
and  whence  their  language  drew  "  empyreal  air."  Marlowe 
and  Spenser  are  the  first  of  our  poets  who  perceived  the  beauty 
of  words ;  not  as  apart  from  their  significance,  nor  upon  occa- 
sion only,  as  Chaucer  did  (more  marvellous  in  that  than  them- 
selves, or  than  the  originals  from  whom  lie  drew),  but  as  a  habit 
of  the  poetic  mood,  and  as  receiving  and  i'oflecting  beauty 
through  the  feeling  of  the  ideas. 


THE  JEW  OF  MALTA'S  IDEA  OF  WEALTH. 

So  that  of  thus  much  that  return  was  made. 
And  of  the  third  part  of  the  Persian  ships, 
There  was  the  venture  summ'd  and  satisfied. 
As  for  those  Samnites,  and  the  men  of  Uz, 
That  bought  my  Spanish  oils  and  wines  of  Greece,' 
Here  have  I  purs'd  their  paltry  silverlings. 


MARLOWE.  101 


Fie ;  what  a  trouble  'tis  to  count  this  trash.' 

Well  fare  the  Arabians,  who  so  richly  pay 

The  things  they  traffic  for  with  wedge  of  gold, 

Whereof  a  man  may  easily  in  a  day 

Tell  that  which  may  maintain  him  all  his  life 

The  needy  groom,  that  never  finger'd  groat. 

Would  make  a  miracle  of  thus  much  coin  ; 

But  he  whose  steel-barr'd  coffers  are  cramm'd  full. 

And  all  his  life-time  hod  been  tired  (read  ti-er-ed),  .^ 

Wearying  his  fingers'  ends  with  telling  it, 

Would  in  his  age  be  loth  to  labor  so, 

And  for  a  pound  to  sweat  himself  to  death. 

Give  me  the  merchants  of  the  Indian  mines. 

That  trade  in  metal  of  the  purest  mould  ; 

The  wealthy  Moor,  that  in  the  eastern  rocks 

Without  control  can  pick  his  riches  up, 

^nd  in  his  house  heap  pearl  like  pebble-stones  ; 

Receive  them  free,  and  sell  them  by  the  weight ; 

Bags  of  fiery  opals,  sapphires,  amethysts, 

Jacinths,  hard  topaz,  grass-green  emeralds. 

Beauteous  rubies,  sparkling  diamonds. 

And  seld-seen  costly  stones  of  so  great  pnce. 

As  one  of  them  indifferently  rated, 

And  of  a  carat  of  this  quantity, 

May  serve,  in  peril  of  calamity. 

To  ransom  great  kings  from  captivity : 

This  is  the  ware  wherein  consists  my  wealth  ; 

And  thus,  methinks,  should  men  of  judgment  frame 

Their  means  of  traffic  from  the  vulgar  trade. 

And  as  their  wealth  increaseth,  so  inclose 

Infinite  riches  in  a  little  room. 

But  now  how  stands  the  wind  ? 

Into  what  corner  peers  my  halcyon's  bill  ?* 

Ha  !  to  the  East  ?  yes  ;  see  how  stand  the  vanes  ? 

East  and  by  south.     Why  then,  I  hope  my  ships 

J  sent  for  Egypt  and  the  bordering  isles 

Are  gotten  up  by  Nilus'  winding  banks ; 

Mine  argosies  from  Alexandria,^ 

Loaden  with  sjnce  and  silks,  now  under  sail. 

Are  smoothly  gliding  down  by  Candy  shore 

To  Malta,  through  our  Mediterranean  Sea. 

1  "  Samnites"  and  "  men  of  Uz,"  and  "  Spanish  oils ."' — That  IS  to 
say,  countrymen  and  contemporaries  of  old  Rome,  of  Arabian 

•  "  My  halcyon's  bill.'' — The  halcyon  is  the  figure  on  the  vane. 


102  MARLOWE. 


Job,  and  the  modern  Spanish  merchants  !  Marlowe,  though  he 
was  a  scholar,  cared  no  more  for  geography  and  consistent  his- 
tory than  Shakspeare.  He  took  the  world  as  he  found  it  at  the 
theatre,  where  it  was  a  mixture  of  golden  age  innocence,  tragi- 
cal enormity,  and  a  knowledge  superior  to  all  petty  and  transi- 
tory facts. 

2  "  Mine  argosies  from  Alexandria"  &c. — Note  the  wonderful 
sweetness  of  these  four  lines,  particularly  the  last.  The  variety 
of  the  vowels,  the  delicate  alliteration,  and  the  lapse  of  the  two 
concluding  verses,  are  equal,  as  a  study,  to  anything  in  Spenser. 


A  VISION  OF  HELEN. 

She  passes  between  two  Cupids,  having  been  summoned  from  the  next 
world  by  desire  of  Faustus. 

Faust.  Was  this  the  face  that  launched  a  thousand  ships. 
And  burnt  the  topmost  towers  of  Ilium  ? 
Sweet  Helen,  make  me  immortal  with  a  kiss, — 
Her  lips  suck  forth  my  soul !  see  where  it  flies. 
Come,  Helen,  come,  give  me  my  soul  again. 
Here  will  I  dwell,  for  heav'n  is  in  these  lips, 
And  all  is  di^oss  that  is  not  Helena. 
I  will  be  Paris ;  and  for  love  of  thee, 
Instead  of  Troy,  shall  Wittenberg  be  sack'd; 
And  I  will  combat  with  weak  Menelaus, 
And  wear  my  colors  on  my  plumed  crest ; 
Yea,  I  will  wound  Achilles  in  the  heel. 
And  then  return  to  Helen  for  a  kiss. 
Oh,  thou  art  fairer  than  the  evening  air. 
Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  stars  ; 
Brighter  art  thou  than  flaming  Jupiter,^ 
When  he  appear'd  to  hapless  Semele ; 
More  lovely  than  the  monarch  of  the  sea, 
In  wanton  Arethusa's  azure  arms  ; 
And  none  but  thou  shalt  be  my  paramour  ! 

8 «'  Brighter  art  thou,"  &c. — Much  cannot  be  said  of  the  five 
lines  here  ensuing  ;  but  their  retention  was  necessary  to  the 
entire  feeling  or  classical  association  of  the  speech,  if  not  to  a 
certain  lingering  modulation. 


MARLOWE.  03 


MYTHOLOGY  AND  COURT  AMUSEMENTS. 
Gaveston  meditates  how  to  govern  Edward  the  Second 

I  must  have  wanton  poets,  pleasant  wits, 
Musicians,  that  with  touching  of  a  string 
May  draw  the  pliant  king  which  way  I  please. 
Music  and  poetry  are  his  delight : 
Therefore  I'll  have  Italian  masks  by  night ; 
Sweet  speeches,  comedies,  and  pleasing  shows ; 
And  in  the  day,  when  he  shall  walk  abroad, 
Like  sylvan  nymphs  my  pages  shall  be  clad  : 
My  men,  like  satyrs  grazing  on  the  lawns. 
Shall  with  their  goat-feet  dance  the  antic  hay. 
Sometimes  a  lovely  boy  in  Dian's  shape, 
With  hair  that  gilds  the  water  as  it  glides. 
Shall  bathe  him  in  a  spring  ;  and  there,  hard  by. 
One,  like  Actaeon,  peeping  through  the  grove, 
Shall  by  the  angry  goddess  be  transform'd ; 
And  running  in  the  likeness  of  a  hart. 
By  yelping  hounds  pull'd  down,  shall  seem  to  die- 
Such  things  as  these  best  please  his  Majesty. 


BEAUTY  BEYOND  EXPRESSION. 

If  all  the  pens  that  ever  poet  held 

Had  fed  the  feeling  of  their  master's  thoughts, 

And  ev'ry  sweetness  that  inspired  their  hearts. 

And  minds,  and  muses  on  admired  themes ; 

If  all  the  heavenly  quintessence  they  still 

From  their  immortal  flowers  of  poesy, 

Wherein,  as  in  a  mirror,  we  perceive 

The  highest  reaches  of  a  human  wit ; 

If  these  had  made  one  poem's  period. 

And  all  combin'd  In  beauty's  worthiness. 

Yet  should  there  hover  in  their  restless  heads, 

One  thought,  one  grace,  one  wonder,  at  the  besi. 

Which  into  words  no  virtue  can  digest. 


i04  MARLOWE. 


THE  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD  TO  HIS  LOVE. 

Come  live  with  me  and  he  my  love, 
^nd  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove, 
*  That  hill  and  valley,  grove  and  field. 

And  all  the  craggy  mountains  yield 
There  will  we  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 
There  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses, 
With  a  thousand  fragrant  posies ; 
A  cap  of  flowers  and  a  kirtle 
Embroider' d  all  with  leaves  of  m)Ttle  ; 
A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
Slippers  lin'd  choicely  for  the  cold. 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold  ; 
A  belt  of  straw,  and  ivy  buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May  morning  ; 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move. 
Then  live  with  me  and  he  my  love. 

This  song  is  introduced,  not  so  much  for  its  poetical  excel- 
lence (though  it  is  quite  what  a  poet  would  write  on  the  occa- 
sion) as  because  it  is  one  of  those  happy  embodiments  of  a 
thought  which  all  the  world  thinks  at  some  time  or  other ;  and 
which  therefore  takes  wonderfully  with  them  when  somebody 
utters  it.  The  "  golden  buckles"  and  "  amber  studs"  are  not 
to  be  considered  as  a  contradiction  to  the  rest  of  the  imagery ; 
for  we  are  to  suppose  it  a  gentlewoman  to  whom  the  invitation  is 
addressed,  and  with  whom  her  bridegroom  proposes  to  go  and 
play  at  shepherd  and  shepherdess,  at  once  realizing  the  sweets 
of  lowliness  and  the  advantages  of  wealth.  A  charming  fancy! 
and  realized  too  sometimes ;  though  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  could 
not  let  it  alone,  but  must   needs   refute  it  in  some  excellent 


MARLOWE.  105 


verses,  too  good  for  the  occasion.  Sir  Walter,  a  great  but  wil- 
f\il  man  (in  some  respects  like  Marlowe  himself,  and  a  true  poet 
too — I  wish  he  had  written  more  poetry),  could  pass  and 
ultimately  lose  his  life  in  search  of  El  Dorados, — whole  coun- 
tries made  of  gold, — but  doubted  whether  an  innocent  young 
lady  and  gentleman,  or  so,  should  aim  at  establishing  a  bit  of 
Arcadia. 

There  are  so  many  copies  of  this  once-popular  production,  all 
different  and  none  quite  consistent,  owing,  no  doubt,  to  oral 
repetitions  and  the  license  of  musical  setting  (for  no  copy  of  it 
is  to  be  found  coeval  with  its  production),  that,  after  studious 
comparison  of  several,  I  have  exercised  a  certain  discretion  in 
the  one  here  printed,  and  omitted  also  an  ill-managed  repetition 
of  the  burthen : — not,  of  course,  with  the  addition  of  a  syllable. 
Such  readers,  therefore,  as  it  may  concern,  are  warned  not  to 
take  the  present  copy  for  granted,  at  the  expense  of  the  others  ; 
but  to  compare  them  all,  and  make  his  choice. 


106  SHAKSPEARE. 


SHAKSPEAEE, 

BORN,  1564 DIED,  1616. 


Shakspeare  is  here  in  his  purely  poetical  creations,  apart  (as 
much  as  it  is  possible  for  such  a  thinker  and  humanist  to  be) 
from  thought  and  humanity.  There  is  nothing  wanting  either  to 
the  imagination  or  fancy  of  Shakspeare.  The  one  is  lofty,  rich, 
affecting,  palpable,  subtle ;  the  other  full  of  grace,  playfulness, 
and  variety.  He  is  equal  to  the  greatest  poets  in  grandeur  of 
imagination  ;  to  all  in  diversity  of  it ;  to  all  in  fancy  ;  to-  all  in 
everything  else,  except  in  a  certain  primaeval  intensity,  such  as 
Dante's  and  Chaucer's;  and  in  narrative  poetry,  which  (to 
judge  from  Venus  and  Adonis,  and  the  Rape  of  Lucrece)  he 
certainly  does  not  appear  to  have  had  a  call  to  write.  He  over- 
informed  it  with  reflection.  It  has  been  supposed  that  when 
Milton  spoke  of  Shakspeare  as 

Fancy's  child 
Warbling  his  native  wood-notes  wild, 

the  genealogy  did  him  injustice.  But  the  critical  distinction 
between  Fancy  and  Imagination  was  hardly  determined  till  of 
late.  Collins  himself,  in  his  Ode  on  the  Poetical  Character, 
uses  the  word  Fancy  to  imply  both,  even  when  speaking  of 
Milton ;  and  so  did  Milton,  I  conceive,  when  speaking  of  Shaks- 
peare. The  propriety  of  the  words,  "  native  wood-notes  wild," 
is  not  so  clear.  I  take  them  to  have  been  hastily  said  by  a 
learned  man  of  an  unlearned.  But  Shakspeare,  though  he  had 
not  a  college  education,  was  as  learned  as  any  man,  in  the 
highest  sense  of  the  word,  by  a  scholarly  intuition.  He  had  the 
spirit  of  learning.     He  was  aware  of  the  education  he  wanted, 


SHAKSPEARE.  107 


and  by  some  means  or  other  supplied  it.  He  could  anticipate 
Milton's  own  Greek  and  Latin ; 

Tortive  and  errant  from  his  course  of  growth — 
The  multitudinous  seas  incarnardine — 
A  pudency  so  rosy,  &c. 

In  fact,  if  Shakspeare's  poetry  has  any  fault,  it  is  that  of  being 
too  learned  ;  too  over-informed  with  thought  and  allusion.  His 
wood-notes  wild  surpass  Haydn  and  Bach.  His  wild  roses  were 
all  twenty  times  double.  He  thinks  twenty  times  to  another 
man's  once,  and  makes  all  his  serious  characters  talk  as  well  as 
he  could  himself, — with  a  superabundance  of  wit  and  intelli- 
gence. He  knew,  however,  that  fairies  must  have  a  language 
of  their  own ;  and  hence,  perhaps,  his  poetry  never  runs  in  a 
more  purely  poetical  vein  than  when  he  is  speaking  in  theit 
persons  ; — I  mean  it  is  less  mixed  up  with  those  heaps  of  com- 
ments and  reflections  v/hich,  however  the  wilful  or  metaphysical 
critic  may  think  them  suitable  on  all  occasions,  or  succeed  in 
persuading  us  not  to  wish  them  absent,  by  reason  of  their  stimu- 
lancy  to  one's  mental  activity,  are  assuredly  neither  always 
proper  to  dramatic,  still  less  to  narrative  poetry  ;  nor  yet  so 
opposed  to  all  idiosyncrasy  on  the  writer's  part  as  Mr.  Coleridge 
would  have  us  believe.  It  is  pretty  manifest,  on  the  contrary, 
that  the  over-informing  intellect  which  Shakspeare  thus  carried 
into  all  his  writings,  must  have  been  a  personal  as  well  as  lite- 
rary peculiarity  ;  and  as  the  events  he  speaks  of  are  sometimes 
more  interesting  in  their  nature  than  even  a  superabundance  of 
his  comments  can  make  them,  readers  may  be  pardoned  in 
sometimes  wishing  that  he  had  let  them  speak  a  little  more 
briefly  for  themselves.  Most  people  would  prefer  Ariosto's  and 
Chaucer's  narrative  poetry  to  his  ;  the  Griselda,  for  instance, 
and  the  story  of  Isabel, — to  the  Rape  of  Lucrece.  The  intense 
passion  is  enough.  The  misery  is  enough.  We  do  not  want 
even  the  divinest  talk  about  what  Nature  herself  tends  to  petrify 
into  silence.  CurcE  ingentes  stupent.  Our  divine  poet  had  not 
quite  outlived  the  times  when  it  was  thought  proper  for  a  writer 
to  say  everything  that  came  into  his  head.  He  was  a  student 
of  Chaucer:    he  beheld  the  living  fame  of  Spenser ;    and  his 


108  SHAKSPEARE. 


fellow-dramatists  did  not  help  to  restrain  him.  The  players  told 
Ben  Jonson  that  Shakspeare  never  blotted  a  line  ;  and  Ben  says 
he  was  thought  invidious  for  observing,  that  he  wished  he  had 
blotted  a  thousand.  He  sometimes,  he  says,  required  stopping. 
{Aliquando  sufflaminandus  erat.)  Was  this  meant  to  apply  to 
his  conversation  as  well  as  writing  ?  Did  he  manifest  a  like 
exuberance  in  company  ?  Perhaps  he  would  have  done  so,  but 
for  modesty  and  self-knowledge.  To  keep  his  eloquence  alto- 
gether within  bounds  was  hardly  possible  ;  and  who  could  have 
wished  it  had  been?  Would  that  he  had  had  a  Boswell  a 
hundred  times  as  voluminous  as  Dr.  Johnson's,  to  take  all  down ! 
Bacon's  Essays  would  have  seemed  like  a  drop  out  of  his  ocean. 
He  would  have  swallowed  dozens  of  Hobbeses  by  anticipation, 
like  larks  for  his  supper. 

,  If  Shakspeare,  instead  of  proving  himself  the  greatest  poet  in 
the  world,  had  written  nothing  but  the  fanciful  scenes  in  this 
volume,  he  would  still  have  obtained  a  high  and  singular  repu- 
tation,— that  of  Poet  of  the  Fairies.  For  he  may  be  said  to 
have  invented  the  Fairies  ;  that  is  to  say,  he  was  the  first  that 
turned  them  to  poetical  account ;  that  bore  them  from  clownish 
neighborhoods  to  the  richest  soils  of  fancy  and  imagination. 


WHOLE  STORY  OF  THE  TEMPEST. 

ENCHANTMENT,  MONSTROSITY,  AND  LOVE. 

The  whole  story  of  the  Tempest  is  really  contained  in  this 
ucene. 

'     Mira.  I  pray  you,  sir, 
(For  still  'tis  beating  in  my  mind)  your  reason 
For  raising  this  sea-storm  ? 

Pro.  Know  thus  far  forth  ;— 

By  accident,  most  strange,  bountiful  fortune, 
Now  my  dear  lady,  hath  mine  enemies 
Brought  to  this  shore  :  and  by  my  prescience, 
I  find  my  zenith  doth  depend  upon 


SHAKSPEARE.  109 


A  most  auspicious  star  :  whose  influence, 

If  now  I  court  not,  but  omit,  my  fortunes 

Will  ever  after  droop  : — here  cease  more  questions  ; 

Thou  art  inclin'd  to  sleep ;  'tis  a  good  duln-^ss, 

And  give  it  way  ; — I  know  thou  canst  not  choose. — 

{Miranda  sleeps.) 
Come  away,  servants,  come ;  I  am  ready  j»ow ; 
Approach,  my  Ariel ;  come. 

Enter  Ariel, 

Art.  All  hail,  great  master !  grave  sir.  hail !  I  come 
To  answer  thy  best  pleasure :  be  't  to  fly^ 
To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 
On  the  curl'd  clouds ;  to  thy  strong  bidding,  task 
Ariel,  and  all  his  quality.  , 

Pro.  Hast  thou,  spirit,  • 

Perform'd  to  point  the  tempest  that  I  ba«!  o  thee  ? 

Ari.  To  every  article. 
I  boarded  the  king's  ship  ;  now  on  the  berk^ 
Now  in  the  waist,  the  deck,  in  every  cabin, 
I  flam'd  amazement.     Sometimes,  I  'd  div^dvj 
And  burn  in  many  places  ;  on  the  top-mast. 
The  yards,  and  bowsprit,  would  I  flame  distincMy, 
Then  meet,  and  join :  Jove's  lightnings,  (he  precursors 
Ct  the  dreadful  thunder-claps  more  momentary 
And  sight  out-running  were  not :  the  fire  and  cr>*ks 
Of  sulphurous  roaring,  the  most  mighty  Neptune 
Seemed  to  besiege,  and  make  his  bold  waves  trembii*  . 
Yea,  his  dread  trident  shake. 

Pro.  My  brave  spirit ! 

Who  was  so  firm,  so  constant,  that  this  coil 
Would  not  infect  his  reason  ? 

Ari.  Not  a  soul 

But  felt  a  fever  of  the  mind,  and  play'd 
Some  tricks  of  desperation ;  all,  but  mariners, 
Plung'd  in  the  foaming  brine,  and  quit  the  vessel 
Then  all  a-fire  with  me :  the  king's  son,  Ferdinand 
With  hair  up-staring  (then  like  reeds,  not  hair). 
Was  the  first  man  that  leap'd ;  cried.  Hell  is  empty. 
And  all  the  devils  are  here. 

Pro.  Why  that 's  my  spirit ! 

But  was  not  this  nigh  shore  ? 

Ari.  Close  by,  my  master. 

Pro.  But  are  they,  Ariel,  safe  ? 

Ari.  Not  a  hair  perish'd ; 

On  their  sustaining  garments  not  a  blemish, 


110  SHAKSPEARE. 


But  fresher  than  before  :  and  as  thou  bad'st  me, 
In  troops  I  have  dispers'd  them  'bout  the  isle  : 
The  king's  son  have  I  landed  by  himself; 
Whom  I  left  cooling  of  the  air  with  sighs. 
In  an  odd  angle  of  the  isle,  and  sitting, — 
His  arms  in  this  sad  knot. 

Pro.  Of  the  king's  ship, 

The  mariners,  say,  how  thou  hast  dispos'd, 
And  all  the  rest  o'  the  fleet  ? 

Ari.  Safely  in  harbor 

Is  the  king's  ship  ;  in  the  nook,  where  once  ' 

Thou  cairdst  me  up  at  midnight  to  fetch  dew 
From  the  still  vexed  Bermoothes  ;  there  she's  hid ; 
The  mariners  all  under  hatches  stow'd  ; 
Whom,  with  a  charm  join'd  to  their  suffer'd  labor, 
I  have  left  asleep  ;  a\|^  for  the  rest  o'  the  fleet, 
Which  I  dispers'd,  they  all  have  met  again ; 
And  are  upon  the  Mediterranean  flote, 
Bound  sadly  home  for  Naples  ; 
Supposing  that  they  saw  the  king's  ship  wreck'd, 
And  his  great  person  perish. 

Pro.  Ariel,  my  charge 

Exactly  is  perform'd ;  but  there's  more  work : 
What  is  the  time  o'  the  day  ? 

Ari.  Past  the  mid  season. 

Pro.  At  least  two  glasses  :  the  time  'twixt  six  and  now, 
Must  by  us  both  be  spent  most  preciously. 

Ari.  Is  there  more  toil  ?     Since  thou  dost  give  me  pains- 
Let  me  remember  thee  what  thou  hast  promis'd. 
Which  is  not  yet  performed  me. 

Pro.  How  now !  moody  ? 

What  is  't  thou  canst  demand  ? 

Ari.  My  liberty. 

Pro.  Before  the  time  be  out  ?  no  more. 

Ari.  I  pray  thee 

Remember,  I  have  done  thee  worthy  service  ; 
Told  thee  no  lies,  made  no  mistakings,  serv'd 
Without  or  grudge  or  grumblings :  thou  didst  promise 
To  bate  me  a  full  year. 

Pro.  Dost  thou  forget 

From  what  a  torment  I  did  free  thee  ? 

ArL  No. 

Pro.  Thou  dost;  and  think'st 
It  much  to  tread  the  ooze  of  the  salt  deep , 
To  run  upon  the  sharp  wind  of  the  north  ; 
To  do  me  business  in  the  veins  of  the  earth. 


SHAKSPEARE.  ill 


When  it  is  bak'd  with  frost. 

Art.  I  do  not,  sir. 

Pro.  Thou  liest,  malignant  thing !     Hast  thou  forgot 
The  foul  witch  Sycorax,  who,  with  age  and  envy. 
Was  grown  into  a  hoop  ?     Hast  thou  forgot  her  ? 

Ari.  No,  sir. 

Pro.  Thou  hast :  where  was  she  born  ?  speak ;  tell  me. 

Ari.  Sir,  in  Argier. 

Pro.  O,  was  she  so  ?     I  must, 

Once  in  a  month,  recount  what  thou  hast  been. 
Which  thou  forget'st.     This  damn'd  witch,  Sycorax, 
For  mischiefs  manifold,  and  sorceries  terrible 
To  enter  human  hearing,  from  Argier 
Thou  know'st  was  banish'd,  for  one  thing  she  did  ; 
They  would  not  take  her  life  :  Is  not  this  true  ? 

Ari.  Aye,  sir. 

Pro.  This  blue-ey'd  hag  was  hither  brought  with  child, 
And  here  was  left  by  the  sailors :  Thou,  my  slave. 
As  thou  report'st  thyself,  was  then  her  servant : 
And,  for  thou  wast  a  spirit  too  delicate 
To  act  her  earthy  and  abhorr'd  commands^ 
Refusing  her  grand  hests,  she  did  confine  thee 
By  help  of  her  more  potent  ministers, 
And  in  her  most  unmitigable  rage. 

Into  a  cloven  pine  :  within  which  rift,  0 

Imprison'd,  thou  didst  painfully  remain 
A  dozen  years ;  within  which  space  she  died, 
And  left  thee  there ;  where  thou  didst  vent  thy  groans. 
As  fast  as  mill-wheels  strike :  Then  was  this  island 
(Save  for  the  son  which  she  did  litter  here, 
A  freckled  whelp,  hag-horn)  not  honor'd  with 
A  human  shape. 

Ari.  Yes ;  Caliban  her  son. 

Pro.  Dull  thing,  I  say  so, — he,  that  Caliban, 
Whom  now  I  keep  in  service.     Thou  best  know'st 
What  torments  I  did  find  thee  in ;  thy  groans 
Did  make  wolves  howl,  and  penetrate  the  breasts 
Of  ever  angry  bears  :  it  was  a  torment 
To  lay  upon  the  damn'd,  which  Sycorax 
Could  not  again  undo  ;  it  was  mine  art. 
When  I  arriv'd,  and  heard  thee,  that  made  gape 
The  pine  and  let  thee  out. 

Ari.  I  thank  thee,  master. 

Pro.  If  thou  more  murmur' st,  I  will  rend  an  oak. 
And  peg  thee  in  his  knotty  entrails,  till 
Thou  hast  howl'd  away  twelve  winters. 


112  SHAKSPEARE. 


Ari.  Pardon,  master : 

I  will  be  correspondent  to  command, 
And  do  my  spiriting  gently. 

Pro.  Do  so ;  and  after  two  days 

I  will  discharge  thee. 

Art.  That's  my  noble  master  ! 

What  shall  I  do  ?  say  .'  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Pro.    Go  make  thyself  like  to  a  nymph  o'  the  sea ; 
Be  subject  to  no  sight  but  mine  ;  invisible 
To  every  eyeball  else.     Go,  take  this  shape, 
And  hither  come  in  't :  hence  with  diligence. 

{Ea^it  Ariel.) 

Awake,  dear  heart,  awake  !  thou  hast  slept  well : 
Awake  ! 

Mira.  The  strangeness  of  your  story  put 
Heaviness  in  me. 

Pro.  Shake  it  off;  come  on  ; 

We'll  visit  Caliban,  my  slave,  who  never 
Yields  us  kind  answer. 

Mira.  'Tis  a  villain,  sir, 

I  do  not  love  to  look  on. 

Pro.  But  as  'tis. 

We  cannot  miss  him  ;  he  does  make  our  fire. 
Fetch  in  our  wood,  and  serves  in  offices 
That  profit  us.     What  ho  !  slave  !  Caliban  ! 
Thou  earth  thou  !  speak. 

Call,  (within.) — There's  wood  enough  within. 

Pro.  Come  forth,  I  say  :  there's  other  business  for  tnee. 
Come  forth,  thou  tortoise  !  when  ? 

Re-enter  Ariel,  like  a  water-nymph. 

Fine  apparition !  my  quaint  Ariel ! 
Hark  in  thine  ear. 

Ari.  My  lord,  it  shall  be  done. 

Pro.  Thou  poisonous  slave,  got  by  the  devil  himself 
Upon  thy  wicked  dam,  come  forth  ! 

Enter  Calibaiv. 

Cali.     As  wicked  dew  as  e'er  my  mother  brush'' d 
With  raven's  feather  from  unwholesome  fen 
Drop  on  you  both  !  a  south-west  blow  on  ye. 
And  blister  you  all  o^er  ! 

Pro.  For  this,  be  sure,  to-night  thou  shalt  have  crampe. 
Side-stitches  that  shall  pen  thy  breath  up ;  urchins 


SHAKSPEARE.  Hi 


Shall,  for  that  vast  of  night  that  they  may  work, 
All  exercise  on  thee  :  thou  shalt  be  pinch'd 
As  thick  as  honey-combs,  each  pinch  more  stinging 
Than  bees  that  made  them. 

Call.  I  must  eat  my  dinner ! 

This  island's  mine,  by  Sycorax,  my  mother. 
Which  thou  tak'st  from  me.     When  thou  camest  first. 
Thou  s'trok'dst  me,  and  mad'st  much  of  me  ;  would'st  give  me 
Water  with  berries  in  't ;  and  teach  me  how 
To  name  the  bigger  light,  and  how  the  less 
That  burn  by  day  and  night :  and  then  I  lov'd  thee,    ^ 
And  show'd  thee  all  the  qualities  o'  the  isle, 
The  fresh  springs,  brine  pits,  barren  place,  and  fertile ; 
Cursed  be  I  that  did  so  !     All  the  charms 
Of  Sycorax,  toads,  beetles,  bats,  light  on  you  ! 
For  I  am  all  the  subjects  that  you  have. 
Which  first  was  mine  own  king ;  and  here  you  sty  me 
In  this  hard  rock,  whiles  you  do  keep  from  me 
The  rest  of  the  island. 

Pro.  Thou  most  lying  slave. 

Whom  stripes  may  move,  not  kindness, — I  have  us'd  thee. 
Filth  as  thou  art,  with  human  care ;  and  lodg'd  thee 
In  mine  own  cell,  till  thou  didst  seek  to  violate 
The  honor  of  my  child. 

Cali.  O  ho,  O  ho  !  would  it  had  been  done  ! 
Thou  didst  prevent  me  ;  I  had  peopled  else 
This  isle  with  Calibans, 

Pro.  Abhorred  slave ; 

Which  any  print  of  goodness  will  not  take. 
Being  capable  of  all  ill !     I  pitied  thee. 
Took  pains  to  make  thee  speak,  taught  thee  each  hour 
One  thing  or  other ;  when  thou  didst  not,  savage. 
Know  thine  own  meaning,  but  wouldst  gabble,  like 
A  thing  most  brutish,  I  endow'd  thy  purposes 
With  words  that  made  them  known  :  but  thy  vile  race. 
Though  thou  didst  learn,  had  that  in 't  which  good  natures 
Could  not  abide  to  be  with ;  therefore  wast  thou 
Deservedly  confin'd  into  this  rock. 
Who  hadst  deserv'd  more  than  a  prison. 

Cali.  You  taught  me  language ;  and  my  profit  on 't 
Is,  I  know  how  to  curse :  the  red  plague  rid  you. 
For  learning  me  your  language  ! 

Pro.  Hag-seed,  hence  ! 

Fetch  us  in  fuel ;  and  be  quick,  thou  wert  best. 
To  answer  other  business.     Shrug'st  thou,  malice  ? 
If  thou  neglect'st,  or  dost  unwillingly 
9 


114  SHAKSPEARE. 


What  I  command,  I'll  rack  thee  with  old  cramps, 
Fill  all  thy  bones  with  aches ;  make  thee  roar. 
That  beasts  shall  tremble  at  thy  din. 

Cali.  No,  'pray  thee ! 

I  must  obey :  his  art  is  of  such  power,    {Aside.) 
It  would  control  my  dam's  god,  Setebos, 
And  make  a  vassal  of  him. 

Pro.  So,  slave ;  hence ! 

\_Eodt  Caliban. 

Re-enter  Ariel,  invisible,  playing  and  singing  ;  Ferdin aptd 
following  him. 

Ariel's    Song. 
Come  unto  these  yellow  sands. 

And  theii  take  hands; 
Courtsied  when  you  have,  and  kiss'd 

(The  wild  waves  whist) 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there ; 
And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burden  bear. 

Hark,  hark ! 
Burthen.  Bowgh,  wowgh.  (dispersedly) 

The  watch-dogs  bark : 
Bur.  Bowgh,  wowgh. 
Hark,  hark  !  I  hear 
The  strain  o{  strutting  chanticlere 
Cry,  Cock-a-doodle-doo. 
Fer.  Where  should  this  music  be }  i'  the  air,  or  the  earth? 
It  sounds  no  more  ; — and  sure  it  waits  upon 
Some  god  of  the  island.     Sitting  on  a  bank, 
Weeping  aj;ain  the  king  my  father's  wreck. 
This  music  crept  by  me  upon  the  waters  ; 
Allaying  both  their  fury,  and  my  passion, 
With  its  sweet  air ;  thence  I  have  foUow'd  it. 
Or  it  hath  drawn  me  rather. — But  'tis  gone : — 
No,  it  begins  again. 

Ariel  sings. 
Full  fathom  Jive  thy  father  lies  ; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made  ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes  ; 

JVothing  of  him  that  doth  fade^ 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  some  rich  thing  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell ; 
Hark!  now  I  hear  them, — ding,  dong,  bell. 
(Burthen,  Ding-dong.) 


SHAKSPEARE.  11« 


Fer.  The  ditty  does  remember  my  drowned  father. 
This  is  no  mortal  business,  nor  no  sound 
That  the  earth  owes  ;—l  hear  it  now  above  me. 

Pro.  The  fringed  curtains  of  thine  eye  advance,^ 
And  say,  what  thou  seest  yond  ! 

Mira.  What  is  't  ?  a  spirit  ? 

Lord,  how  it  looks  about !     Believe,  me,  sir. 
It  carries  a  brave  form  : — but  'tis  a  spirit. 

Pro.  No,  wench  ;  it  eats  and  sleeps,  and  hath  such 
As  we  have, — such.     This  gallant  which  thou  seest. 
Was  in  the  wreck  ;  and  but  he's  something  stain'd 
With  grief,  that's  beauty's  canker,  thou  might'st  call  him 
A  goodly  person  :  he  hath  lost  his  fellows. 
And  strays  about  to  find  them. 

Mira.  I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine ;  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

Pro.  It  goes  on  (aside). 

As  my  soul  prompts  it : — Spirit,  fine  spirit !    I'll  free  thee 
Within  two  days  for  this. 

Fer.  Most  sure,  the  goddess 

On  whom  these  airs  attend  ! — Vouchsafe,  my  prayer 
May  know  if  you  remain  upon  this  island ; 
And  that  you  will  some  good  instructions  give, 
How  I  may  bear  me  here.     My  prime  request, 
Which  I  do  last  pronounce,  is,  O  you  wonder  / 
If  you  be  maid  or  no  ? 

Mira.  No  wonder,  sir ; 

But,  certainly  a  maid. 

Fer  My  language  !  heavens ! 

I  am  the  best  of  them  that  speak  this  speech. 
Were  I  but  where  'tis  spoken. 

Pro.  How  !  the  best  ? 

What  wert  thou,  if  the  King  of  Naples  heard  thee  ? 

Fer.  A  simple  thing,  as  I  am  now,  that  wonders 
To  hear  thee  speak  of  Naples  ;  he  does  hear  me ; 
And,  that  he  does,  I  weep  ;  myself  am  JVaples  ;2 
Who  with  mine  eyes,  ne'er  since  at  ebb,  beheld 
The  king  my  father  wreck'd. 

Mira.  Alack  for  mercy  ! 

Fer.  Yes,  faith,  and  all  his  lords  ;  th.  Duke  of  Milan, 
And  his  brave  son,  being  twain. 

Pro.  (aside.)  The  Duke  of  Milan, 

And  his  more  braver  daughter,  could  control  thee. 
If  now  'twere  fit  to  do  't. — At  the  first  sight 
They  have  changed  eyes .' — Delicate  Ariel  {aside)t 
I'll  set  thee  free  for  this  ! 


116  SHAKSPEARE. 


1  The  fringed  curtains  of  thine  eye  advance. 

Why  Shakspeare  should  have  condescended  to  the  elaborate 
nothingness,  not  to  say  nonsense  of  this  metaphor  (for  what  is 
meant  by  advancing  "  curtains  ?")  I  cannot  conceive  ;  that  is 
to  say,  if  he  did  condescend ;  for  it  looks  very  like  the  interpo- 
lation of  some  pompous,  declamatory  player.  Pope  has  put  it 
into  his  treatise  on  the  Bathos. 

2  "  Myself  am  JVaples."— This,  is  a  very  summary  and  kingly 
style.  Shakspeare  is  fond  of  it.  "  How,  now,  France  ?"  says 
King  John  to  King  Philip,  "  I'm  dying,  Egypt !"  says  Antony  to 
Cleopatra. 


MACBETH  AND  THE  WITCHES. 

This  scene  fortunately  comprises  a  summary  of  the  whole 
subsequent  history  of  Macbeth. 

A  dark  Cave.     In  the  middle,  a  Caldron  boiling.     Thunder. 
Enter  three  Witches. 

1st  Wi.  Thrice  the  brinded  cat  hath  mew'd, 
2nd  Wi.  Thrice  and  once  the  hedge-pig  whin'd, 
2rd  Wi.  Harper  cries  : — 'Tis  time,  'tis  time. 
1st  Wi.     Round  about  the  caldron  go  ; 

In  the  poison'd  entrails  throw. 

Toad,  that  under  cold  stone 

Days  and  nights  has,  thirty-one. 

Swelter' d  venom  sleeping  got. 

Boil  thou  first  i'  the  charmed  pot ! 
All        Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble  ; 

Fire,  burn  ;  and,  caldron,  bubble. 
2nd  Wi.  Fillet  of  a  fenny  snake, 

In  the  caldron  boil  and  bake  : 

Eye  of  newt,  and  toe  of  frog, 

Wool  of  bat,  and  tongue  of  dog. 

Adder's  fork,  and  blind-worm's  sting, 

Lizard's  leg,  and  owlet's  wing, 

For  a  charm  of  powerful  trouble ; 

Like  a  hell-broth,  boil  and  bubble. 


SHAKSPEARE.  117 


All.       Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble  ; 

Fire,  burn  ;  and,  caldron,  bubble. 
2rd  Wi.   Scale  of  dragon,  tooth  of  wolf; 

Witches^  mummy  ;  maw,  and  gulf. 

Of  the  ravin'd  salt-sea  shark  ; 

Root  of  hemlock,  digg'd  i'  the  dark  : 

Liver  of  blaspheming  Jew  ; 

Gall  of  goat,  and  slips  of  yew. 

Slivered  in  the  moon^s  eclipse  ; 

JVose  of  Turk,  and  Tartar's  lips  ; 

Finger  of  birth-strangled  babe. 

Ditch-delivered  by  a  drab  ; 

Make  the  gruel  thick  and  slab  ; 

Add  thereto  a  tiger's  chaudron, 

For  the  ingredients  of  our  caldron. 
All.       Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble. 

Fire,  burn  ;  and,  caldron,  bubble. 
2nd  Wi.  Cool  it  with  a  baboon's  blood. 

Enter  Hecate  and  the  three  other  Witches 
Hec.  O,  well  done  !  I  commend  your  pains ; 
And  every  one  shall  share  i'  the  gains, 
And  now  about  the  caldron  sing. 
Like  elves  and  fairies  in  a  ring, 
Enchanting  all  that  you  put  in. 

(Music  and  a  Song,  Black  Spirits,  &c.) 

2nd  Wi.  By  the  pricking  of  my  thumbs. 

Something  wicked  this  way  comes : — 
Open,  locks,  whoever  knocks. 

Enter  Macbeth. 

Mac.  How  now,  you  secret,  black,  and  midnight  hags. 

What  is't  you  do? 

All.  A  deed  without  a  name. 

Mac.  I  conjure  you,  by  that  which  you  profess 
(Howe'er  you  come  to  know  it),  answer  me : 
Though  you  untie  the  winds,  and  let  them  fight 
Against  the  churches :  though  the  yesty  waves 
Confound  and  swallow  navigation  up  ; 
Though  bladed  corn  be  lodg'd,  and  trees  blown  down ; 
Though  castles  topple  on  their  warders'  heads ; 
Though  palaces  and  pyramids  do  slope 
Their  heads  to  their  foundations ;  though  the  treasure 
Of  nature's  germins  tumble  all  together. 
Even  till  destruction  sicken,  answer  me 
To  what  I  ask  you. 


lis  SHAKSPEARE. 


Ut  Wl  Speak. 

2nd  Wi.  Demand. 

2rd  Wi.  We'll  answer. 

Ist  Wi.  Say,  if  thou'dst  rather  hear  it  from  our  mouths, 
Or  from  our  masters'  ? 

Mac.  Call  them,  let  me  see  them. 

\st  Wi.  Pour  in  sow's  blood,  that  hath  eaten 
Her  nine  farrow  ;  grease,  thafs  sweaten 
From  the  murderer's  gibbet,  throw 
Into  the  flame. 

All.  Come,  high  or  low  ; 

Thyself,  and  oflSce,  deftly  show. 

Thunder.    An  Apparition  of  an  armed  Head  rises. 

Mac.  Tell  me,  thou  unknown  power, — 

1st  Wi.  He  knows  thy  thought ; 

Hear  his  speech,  but  say  thou  naught. 

App.  Macbeth  !  Macbeth  !  Macbeth  !  beware  Macduff; 
Beware  the  Thane  of  Fife. — Dismiss  me  ; — Enough. 

{Descends.) 

Mac.  Whate'er  thou  art,  for  thy  good  caution  thanks ; 
Thou  hast  harp'd  my  fear  aright : — But  one  word  more  ; — 

1st  Wi.  He  will  not  be  commanded.     Here's  another, 
More  potent  than  the  first. 

Thunder.    An  Apparition  of  a  bloody  Child  rises. ^ 

App.  Macbeth  !  Macbeth  !  Macbeth  ! — 

Mac.  Had  I  three  ears,  I'd  hear  thee 

App.  Be  bloody,  bold,  and  resolute  ;  laugh  to  scorn 
The  power  of  man,  for  none  of  woman  born 
Shall  harm  Macbeth. 

Mac.  Then  live,  Macduff:  what  need  I  fear  of  thee  ? 
But  yet  I'll  make  assurance  doubly  sure. 
And  take  a  bond  of  fate  :  thou  shalt  not  live  ; 
That  I  may  tell  pale-hearted  fear  it  lies. 
And  sleep  in  spite  of  thunder. — What  is  this  ? 

Thunder.    An  Apparition  of  a  Child  crowned,  with  a  tree  in  his  hand, 

rises. 

That  rises  like  the  issue  of  a  king ; 

And  wears  upon  his  baby-brow  the  round 

And  top  of  sovereignty  ! 

All.  Listen,  but  speak  not  to 't. 

App.  Be  lion-mettled,  proud ;  and  take  no  care 
Who  chafes,  who  frets,  or  where  conspirers  are ; 
Macbeth  shall  never  vanquish'd  be,  until 


SHAKSPEARE.  lig 


Great  Birnam  wood  to  high  Dunsinane  hill 
Shall  come  against  him. 

{Descends.) 

Mae.  That  will  never  be ; 

Who  can  impress  the  forest ;  bid  the  tree 
Unfix  his  earth-bound  root  ?  sweet  bodements  !  good  ! 
Rebellious  head,  rise  never,  till  the  wood 
Of  Birnam  rise,  and  our  high-plac'd  Macbeth 
Shall  live  the  lease  of  nature,  pay  his  breath 
To  time,  and  mortal  custom. — Yet  my  heart 
Throbs  to  know  one  thing ;  Tell  me  (if  your  art 
Can  tell  so  much)  shall  Banquo's  issue  ever 
Reign  in  the  kingdom  ? 

^11.  Seek  to  know  no  more. 

Mac.  I  will  be  satisfied ;  deny  me  this 
And  an  eternal  curse  fall  on  you  !    Let  me  know  : — 
Why  sinks  that  caldron  ?  and  what  noise  is  this  ? 

(Hautboys.) 

Ist  Wi.  Show! 

2nd  Wi.  Show! 

3rd  Wi.  Show! 

All.  Show  his  eyes  and  grieve  his  heart. 
Come  like  shadows,  so  depart. 

Eight  Kings  appear^  and  pass  over  the  stage  in  order ;  the  last  with  a 
glass  in  his  hand  ;  Banquo  following. 

Mac.  Thou  art  too  like  the  spirit  of  Banquo ;  down  ! 
Jjhy  crown  does  sear  mine  eyeballs : — And  thy  hair. 
Thou  other  gold-bound  brow  is  like  the  first ; —  * 
A  third  is  like  the  former  ; — Filthy  hags  ! 
Why  do  you  show  me  this .'  a  fourth  ?     Start,  eyes ! 
What !  will  the  line  stretch  out  to  the  crack  of  doom  ' 
Another  yet .' — A  seventh  ? — I'll  see  no  more : 
And  yet  the  eighth  appears,  who  bears  a  glass 
Which  shows  me  many  more  ;  and  some  I  see. 
That  two-fold  balls  and  treble  sceptres  carry : 
Horrible  sight ! — Now,  I  see,  'tis  true ; 
For  the  blood-bolter'' d  Banquo  smiles  upon  me, 
jind  points  at  them  for  his. — What,  is  this  so  ? 
1st  Wi.  Aye,  sir,  all  this  is  so : — But  why 

Stands  Macbeth  thus  amazedly  ? 

Come,  sisters,  cheer  we  up  his  sprites. 

And  show  the  best  of  our  delights  : 

I'll  charm  the  air  to  give  a  sound. 

While  you  perform  your  antique  round : 


120  SHAKSPEARE. 


That  this  great  king  may  kindly  say, 
Our  duties  did  his  welcome  pay. 

(Mtisic.    The  Witches  dance^  and  vanish.) 

Mac.  Where  are  they  ?    Gone  ? — Let  this  pernicious  hour, 
Stand  aye  accursed  in  the  calendar  ! — 
Come  in,  without  there  ! 

Enter  Lenox. 

Len.  What's  your  grace's  will  ? 

Mac.  Saw  you  the  weird  sisters  ? 

Len.  No,  indeed,  my  lord. 

Mac.  Infected  be  the  air  whereon  they  ride ; 
And  damn'd  all  those  that  trust  them  ! — I  did  hear 
The  galloping  of  horse  ;  who  was 't  came  by  ? 

Len.  'Tis  two  or  three,  my  lord,  that  bring  you  word, 
Macduff  is  fled  to  England. 

Mac.  Fled  to  England  ? 

Len.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Mac.  Time,  thou  anticipat'st  my  dread  exploits : 
The  flighty  purpose  never  is  o'ertook, 
Unless  the  deed  go  with  it :  From  this  moment, 
The  very  firstlings  of  my  heart  shall  be 

The  firstlings  of  my  hand.     And  even  now,  ^  v 

To  crown  my  thoughts  with  acts,  be  it  thought  and  done : 
This  castle  of  Macduff"  I  will  surprise ; 
Seize  upon  Fife  ;  give  to  the  edge  o'  the  sword 
His  wife,  his  babes,  and  all  unfortunate  souls 
That  trace  him  in  "his  line.     No  boasting  like  a  fool ; 
This  deed  I'll  do  before  this  purpose  cool ; 
But  no  more  sights  /^ — Where  are  these  gentlemen  ? 
Come,  bring  me  where  they  are. 

(Exeunt.) 

3  «« Apparition  of  a  bloody  child.'' — The  idea  of  a  "  bloody  child" 
and  of  his  being  more  potent  than  the  armed  head,  and  one  of 
the  masters  of  the  witches,  is  very  dreadful.  So  is  that  of  the 
child  crowned,  with  a  tree  in  his  hand.  They  impersonate,  it  is 
true,  certain  results  of  the  war,  the  destruction  of  Macduff's 
children,  and  the  succession  of  Banquo's ;  but  the  imagination 
does  not  make  these  reflections  at  first ;  and  the  dread  fulness 
still  remains,  of  potent  demons  speaking  in  the  shapes  of 
children. 


SHAKSPEARE.  121 


*  *'  But  no  more  sights." — What  a  world  of  horrors  is  in  this  little 
familiar  phrase ! 


THE  QUARREL  OF  OBERON  AND  TITANIA. 

A  Fairy    Drama. 

I  have  ventured  to  give  the  extract  this  title,  because  it  not 
only  contains  the  whole  story  of  the  fairy  part  of  the  Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream,  but  by  the  omission  of  a  few  lines,  and  the 
transposition  of  one  small  passage  (for  which  I  beg  the  reader's 
indulgence),  it  actually  forms  a  separate  little  play.  It  is  nearly 
such  in  the  greater  play ;  and  its  isolation  was  easily,  and  not 
at  all  injuriously  effected,  by  the  separation  of  the  Weaver  from 
his  brother  mechanicals. 

Enter  Oberon  at  one  door  with  his  train  ;  and  Titania  at  another 
with  hers. 

Ober.  Ill  met  by  moonlight,  proud  Titania. 

Tit.  What !  jealous  Oberon .'  Fairies,  skip  hence : 
I  have  forsworn  his  bed  and  company. 

Ober.  Tarry,  rash  wanton  ;  am  not  I  thy  lord  ? 

Tit.  Then  I  must  be  thy  lady ;  but  I  know 
When  thou  hast  stol'n  away  from  fairy-land. 
And  in  the  shape  of  Corin  sat  all  day 
Playing  on  pipes  of  corn,  and  versing  love 
To  amorous  Phillida.     Why  art  thou  here. 

Come  from  the  furthest  steep  of  India,^  'jk 

But  that,  forsooth,  the  bouncing  Amazon, 
Your  buskin'd  mistress,  and  your  warrior  love, 
To  Theseus  must  be  wedded  ;  and  you  come 
To  give  their  bed  joy  and  prosperity  ? 

Ober.  How  canst  thou  thus,  for  shame,  Titania, 
Glance  at  my  credit  with  Hippolyta, 
Knowing  I  know  thy  love  to  Theseus  ? 
Didst  thou  not  lead  him  through  the  glimmering  night 
From  Perigenia,  whom  he  ravished  ? 
And  make  him  with  fair  iEgle  break  his  faith, 


122  SHAKSPEARE. 


With  Ariadne,  and  Antiope  ? 

Tit.  These  are  the  forgeries  of  jealousy: 
And  never  since  the  middle  summer's  spring. 
Met  we  on  hill,  in  dale,  forest,  or  mead. 
By  paved  fountain,  or  by  rushing  brook. 
Or  on  the  beached  margent  of  the  sea. 
To  dance  our  ringlets  to  the  whistling  windt 
But  in  thy  brawls  thou  hast  disturbed  our  sport 
Therefore  the  winds,  piping  to  us  in  vain. 
As  in  revenge,  have  suck'd  up  from  the  sea 
Contagious  fogs ;  which  falling  on  the  land. 
Have  every  pelting  river  made  so  proud. 
That  they  have  overborne  their  continents ; 
The  ox  hath  therefore  stretch'd  his  yoke  in  vain. 
The  ploughman  lost  his  sweat,  and  the  green  corn 
Hath  rotted,  ere  his  youth  attained  a  heard  : 
The  fold  stands  empty  in  the  drowned  field. 
And  crows  are  fatted  with  the  murrain  flock  ; 
The  nine  men's  morris*  is  fill'd  up  with  mud ; 
And  the  quaint  mazes  in  the  wanton  green. 
For  lack  of  tread,  are  undistinguishable  ; 
The  human  mortals  want  their  winter  here  ; 
No  night  is  now  with  hymn  or  carol  blest : 
Therefore  the  moon,  the  governess  of  floods. 
Pale  in  her  anger,  washes  all  the  airy 
That  rheumatic  diseases  do  abound  : 
And  thorough  this  distemperature,  we  see 
The  seasons  alter  :  hoary-headed  frosts 
Fall  in  the  fresh  lap  of  the  crimson  rose; 
And  on  old  Hyems'  chin,  and  icy  crown. 
An  odorous  chaplet  of  sweet  summer  buds 
Is,  as  in  mockery,  set.     The  spring,  the  summer. 
The  chilling  autumn,  angry  winter,  change 
Their  wonted  liveries  ;  and  the  mazed  world. 
By  their  increase,  now  knows  not  which  is  which  : 
And  this  same  progeny  of  evils  comes 
From  our  debate,  from  our  dissension : 
We  are  their  parents  and  original. 

Ober.  Do  you  amend  it  then  :  it  lies  in  you : 
Why  should  Titian  cross  her  Oberon  ? 
I  do  but  beg  a  little  changeling  boy. 
To  be  my  henchman,t 

♦  JVine  men's  morris.— A  rustic  game,  played  with  stones  upon  lines  cut 
in  the  ground. 
\  Henchman — Page. 


SHAKSPEARE.  123 


JHt.  Set  your  heart  at  rest ; 

The  fairy  land  buys  not  the  child  of  me. 
His  mother  was  a  vot'ress  of  my  order  ; 
And,  in  the  spicdd  Indian  air,  by  night. 
Full  often  hath  she  gossip'd  by  my  side  ; 
And  sat  with  me  on  Neptune's  yellow  sands. 
Marking  the  embarking  traders  on  the  flood ; 
When  we  have  laughed  to  see  the  sails  conceive 
And  grow  big-bellied  with  the  wanton  wind  : 
Which  she  with  pretty  and  with  swimming  gait 
(Following  her  womb,  then  rich  with  my  young  squire) 
Would  imitate ;  and  sail  upon  the  land, 
To  fetch  me  trifles  and  return  again, 
As  from  a  voyage,  rich  with  merchandize. 
But  she,  being  mortal,  of  that  boy  did  die ; 
And,  for  her  sake,  I  do  rear  up  her  boy : 
And,  for  her  sake,  I  will  not  part  with  him. 

Ober.  How  long  within  this  wood  intend  you  stay .' 

Tit.  Perchance  till  after  Theseus'  wedding-day. 
If  you  will  patiently  dance  in  our  round, 
And  see  our  moorilight  revels,  go  with  us  ; 
If  not,  shun  me,  and  I  will  spare  your  haunts. 

Ober.  Give  me  that  boy,  and  I  will  go  with  thee. 

Tit.  Not  for  thy  fairy  kingdom. — Fairies,  away  : 
We  shall  chide  down-right,  if  I  longer  stay. 

lExeunt  Titania  and  her  train. 

Ober.  Well,  go  thy  way  :  thou  shalt  not  from  this  grove. 
Till  I  torment  thee  for  this  injury. — 
My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither.     Thou  remember'st 
Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory, 
And  heard  a  mermaid  on  a  dolphin's  back. 
Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath. 
That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song  ; 
And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres. 
To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 

Puck.  I  remember, 

Ober.   That  very  night  I  saw  (but  thou  couldst  not). 
Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 
Cupid  all  arm'd:  a  certain  aim  he  took 
At  a  fair  vestal,  throned  by  the  west  ;* 
And  loos'd  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow, 

*  At  a  fair  vestal,  throned  by  the  west. — An  allusion  to  Queen  Eliza- 
beth. See  in  the  Rev.  Mr.  Halpin's  remarks  on  this  passage,  published  by 
the  Shakspeare  Society,  a  most  ingenious  speculation  on  the  hidden  mean- 
ing of  it,  as  a  bit  of  secret  court  history. 


l24  SHAKSPEARE. 


As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts : 

But  I  might  seen  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 

Quench" d  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  ivafry  moon : 

And  the  imperial  votaress  passed  on. 

In  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free. 

Yet  mark'd  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell ; 

It  fell  upon  a  little  western  flower, — 

Before  milk-white  ;  now  purple  with  love's  wound, 

And  maidens  call  it  Love-in-idleness,* 

Fetch  me  that  flower :  the  herb  I  showed  thee  once  : 

The  juice  of  it  on  sleeping  eyelids  laid, 

Will  make  or  man  or  woman  madly  dote 

Upon  the  next  live  creature  that  it  sees. 

Fetch  me  this  herb  :  and  be  thou  here  again, 

Kre  the  leviathan  can  switn  a  league. 

Puck.  Til  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth. 
In  forty  minutes. 

lExit  Puck. 

Ober.  Having  once  this  juice, 

I'll  watch  Titania  when  she  is  asleep. 
And  drop  the  liquor  of  it  in  her  eyes :  * 

The  next  thing  then  she  waking  looks  upon  * 

(Be  it  on  lion,  bear,  or  wolf,  or  bull,  ^ 

Or  meddling  monkey,  or  on  busy  ape). 
She  shall  pursue  it  with  the  soul  of  love. 
And  ere  I  take  this  charm  off"  from  her  sight 
(As  I  can  take  it  with  another  herb), 
I'll  make  her  render  up  lier  page  to  me. 

\Eocit  Oberon 

Another  part  of  the  Wood. 

Enter  Titani.'.  and  her  train. 

Tit.  Come,  now  a  roundel,  and  a  fairy  song; 
Then,  for  the  third  part  of  a  minute,  hence  ; 
Some,  to  kill  cankers  in  the  musk-rose  buds  ; 
Some,  war  with  rear  mice  for  their  leathern  wings. 
To  make  my  small  elves'  coats  ;  and  some  keep  back 
The  clamorous  owl,  that  nightly  hoots,  and  wonders 
At  ourfiuaint  spirits:  Sing  me  now  asleep  ; 
Then  to  your  offices,  and  let  me  rest. 


*  Love-in-idleness. — The  heart's-c 


SHAKSPEARE.  125 


SONG 

1st  Fat.  You  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue, 
Thorny  hedge-hogs,  be  not  seen. 
Newts  and  blind  worms,  do  no  wrong ; 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen. 
Chorus.  Philomel  with  melody 

Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby, 
LuUa,  luUa,  lullaby :  lulla,  luUa,  lullaby ; 
Never  harm,  nor  spell,  nor  charm. 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh ; 
So,  good  night — with  lullaby. 
2d  Fat.  Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here ; 

Hence  you  long-legged  spinners,  hence : 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near ; 
Worm  nor  snail,  do  no  offence. 
Chorus.  Philomel  with  melody,  &c, 
1st  Fai.  Hence,  away ;  now  all  is  well : 
One,  aloof,  stand  sentinel. 

[Exeunt  Fairies.     Titania  sleeps. 

Enter  Oberon. 

Oher. — What  thou  seest  when  thou  dost  awake 

[Squeezes  the  flower  on  Titaniums  eyelids. 
Do  it  for  thy  true  love  take  ; 
Love  and  languish  for  his  sake : 
Be  it  ounce,  or  cat,  or  bear, 
Pard,  or  boar  with  bristled  hair. 
In  thy  eye  that  shall  appear 
When  thou  wak'st,  it  is  thy  dear ; 
Wake,  when  some  vile  thing  is  near. 

[Exit. 

Enter  Bottom,  singing  ;  Puck  having  clapt  on  him  an  ass's  head 

t 
Song. 

Bot.  The  ousel-cock,  so  black  of  hue. 
With  orange-tawny  bill. 
The  throstle  with  his  note  so  true. 
The  wren  with  little  quill — 
THt.  What  angel  wakes  me  from  rhy  flowery  bed  ? 

[Wakes. 
I  pray  thee,  gentle  mortal,  sing  again  ; 
Mine  ear  is  much  enamor'd  of  thy  note ; 


126  ,  SHAKSPEARE. 


So  is  mine  eye  enthrallM  to  thy  shape ; 

And  thy  fair  virtue's  force  perforce  doth  move  me, 

On  the  first  view,  to  say,  to  swear,  I  love  thee. 
Bot.  Methinks,  mistress,  you  should  have  little  reason  for  that,  and  yet  to 
say  the  truth,  reason  and  love  keep  little  company  together  now-a-days. 
The  more  the  pity  that  some  honest  neighbors  will  not  make  them  friends. 
Nay,  I  can  gleek*  upon  occasion. 

Tit.  Thou  art  as  wise  as  thou  art  beautiful. 

Bot.  Not  so  neither  ;  but  if  I  had  wit  enough  to  get  out  of  this  wood,  I 
have  enough  to  serve  mine  own  turn. 

Tit.  Out  of  this  wood  do  not  desire  to  go  : 

Thou  shalt  remain  here,  whether  thou  wilt  or  no. 

I  am  a  spirit  of  no  common  rate  ; 

The  summer  still  doth  tend  upon  my  state. 

And  I  do  love  thee ;  therefore  go  with  me ; 

I'll  give  thee  fairies  to  attend  on  thee ; 

And  they  shall  fetch  thee  jewels  from  the  deep, 

And  sing,  while  thou  on  pressed  flowers  dost  sleep  : 

And  I  will  purge  thy  mortal  grossness  so, 

That  thou  shalt  like  an  airy  spirit  go, 

Peas-blossom  !  Cobweb !    Moth  !  and  Mustard-seed  ! 

Enter  four  Fairies. 

1st  Fat.  Ready. 

2nd  Fai.  And  I. 

3rd  Fai.  And  I. 

4th  Fai.  Where  shall  we  go  ? 

Tit.  Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentleman  ;        ^ 
Hop  in  his  walks,  and  gambol  in  his  eyes  ; 
Feed  him  with  apricocks  and  dewberries, 
With  purple  grapes,  green  figs,  and  mulberries : 
The  honey-bags  steal  from  the  humble-bees,  % 

And  for  night  tapers  crop  their  waxen  thighs^ 
And  light  them  at  the  fiery  glow-worm's  eyes. 
To  have  my  love  to  bed,  and  to  arise : 
-^  And  pluck  the  wings  from  painted  butterflies. 
To  fan  the  moon-beams  from  his  sleeping  eyes  ; 
JVod  to  htm,  elves,  and  do  him  courtesies. 

1st  Fai.  Hail,  mortal ! 

2nd  Fai.  Hail! 

3rd  Fai.  Hail! 

4th Fai.  Hail! 
Bot.  I  cry  your  worship's  mercy,  heartily,    I  beseech  your  worship's 


*  ©ZccA.— -Banter, 


SHAKSPEARE.  •  ^127 


Cob.  Cobweb. 

Bot.  I  shall  desire  you  of  more  acquaintance,  good  Master  Cobweb.     Tf  I 
tut  my  finger,  I  shall  make  bold  with  you.      Your  name,  honest  gentle 
man  ? 

Peas.  Peas-blossom. 

Bot.  I  pray  you  commend  me  to  Mistress  Squash,  your  mother,  and  to 
Master  Peascod,  your  father.  Good  Master  Peas-Blossom,  I  shall  desire  you 
of  more  acquaintance  too.     Your  name,  I  beseech  you,  sir  ? 

Mus.  Mustard-seed. 

Bot.  Good  Master  Mustard-seed,  I  know  your  patience  well.  Thatsam^ 
c&wardly,  giant-like  ox-beef  hath  devoured  many  gentlemen  of  your 
house.  I  promise  you  your  kindred  hath  made  m.y  eyes  water  ere  now.  I 
desire  you  more  acquaintance,  good  Master  Mustard-seed. 

Oberon  enters  unseen. 
Tit.  Come,  sit  thee  down  upon  this  flowery  bed, 
While  I  thy  amiable  cheeks  do  coy 
And  stick  musk-roses  in  thy  sleek  smooth  head, 
And  kiss  thy  fair  large  ears,  my  gentle  joy. 
Bot.  Where's  Peas-blossom .' 
Peas,  Ready. 

Bot.  Scratch  my  head,  Peas-blossom.     Where's  Monsieur  Cobweb 
Cob.  Ready. 
Bot.  Monsieur  Cobweb,  good  monsieur,  get  up  your  weapons  in  your 
hands,  and  kill  me  a  red-hipped  humble  bee  on  the  top  of  a  thistle  ;  and, 
good  monsieur,  bring  me  the  honey-bag.     Do  not  fret  yourself  too  much 
with  the  action,  monsieur ;  and,  good  monsieur,  have  a  care  tht  honey-bag 
break  not ;  /  would  be  loth  to  have  you  overflown  with  a  honey -bag  j 
signior. — Where's  Monsieur  Mustard-seed  ? 
Must.  Ready. 

Bot.  Give  me  your  neif,*  Monsieur  Mustard-seed.     Pray  you,  leave  your 
courtesy,  good  monsieur. 
Must.  What's  your  will  ? 

Bot.  Nothing,  good  monsieur,  but  to  help  Cavaliero  Cobweb  to  scratch. 
I  must  to  the  barber's,  monsieur ;  for  methinks  I  am  m,arvellous  hairy 
about  the  face  ;  and  I  am  such  a  tender  ass,  if  my  hair  do  but  tickle  mg  I 
must  scratch. 

Tit.  What,  wilt  thou  hear  some  music,  my  sweet  love  ? 
Bot.  I  have  a  reasonable  ear  in  music :  let  us  have  the  tongs  and  the 
hones 

Tit.  Or  say,  sweet  love,  what  thou  desirest  to  eat 

Bot.  Truly  a  peck  of  provender.  I  could  munch  your  good  dry  oats. 
Methinks  I  have  a  great  desire  to  a  bottle  of  hay.  Good  hay,  sweet  hay, 
hath  no  fellow. 

•  JVet/.— Fist. 


128  SHAKSPEARE. 

Tit  I  have  a  venturous  fairy,  that  shall  seek  the  squirrel's  hoard,  and 
fetch  thee  new  nuts. 

Bot.  I  had  ruther  have  a  handful  or  two  of  dried  peas: — but,  I  pray 
you,  let  none  of  your  people  stir  me ;  I  have  an  exposition  of  sleep  come 
upon  me. 

Tit.  Sleep  thou,  and  I  will  wind  thee  in  my  arms. 
Fairies,  begone,  and  be  all  ways  away. 

•  So  doth  the  woodbine  the  sweet  honeysuckle 
Gently  en  twist ;-  the  female  ivy  so 
Enrings  the  barky  fingers  of  the  elm. 

0,  how  I  love  thee  !     How  I  dote  on  thee ! 

[They  sleep. 

Oberon  advances.    Enter  Puck. 
Oher.  Welcome,  good  Robin.     See'st  thou  this  sweet  sight  ? 
Her  dotage  now  I  do  begin  to  pity  : 
For  meeting  her  of  late  behind  the  wood. 
Seeking  sweet  savors  for  this  hateful  fool, 
I  did  upbraid  her,  and  fall  out  with  her : 
For  she  his  hairy  temples  then  had  rounded 
With  coronet  of  fresh  and  fragrant  flowers ; 
And  that  same  dew,  which  sometimes  on  the  buds 
Was  wont  to  swell,  like  round  and  orient  pearls. 
Stood  now  within  the  pretty  flowret's  eyes. 
Like  tears,  that  did  their  own  disgrace  bewail. 
When  I  had,  at  my  pleasure,  taunted  her, 
Ani  she,  in  mild  tones,  begged  my  patience, 
I  then  did  ask  of  her  my  changeling  child ; 
Which  straight  she  gave  me,  and  her  fairy  sent 
To  bear  him  to  my  bower  in  fairy  land. 
And  now  I  have  the  boy,  I  will  undo 
This  hateful  imperfection  of  her  eyes. 
And,  gentle  Puck,  take  this  transformed  scalp 
From  off  the  head  of  this  Athenian  swain ; 
That  she  awaking  when  the  other  do, 
^     May  all  to  Athens  back  again  repair, 
^     And  think  no  more  of  this  night's  accidents. 
But  as  the  fierce  vexation  of  a  dream.* 
But  first,  I  will  release  the  fairy  queen. 

Be  as  thou  wert  wont  to  be ; 

(  Touching  her  eyes  with  a  herb  ) 

See,  as  thou  were  wont  to  see  ; 

Dian's  bud  o'er  Cupid's  flower 

*  But  as  the  fierce  vexation  of  a  dream. — -This  fine  stray  verse  comeM 
looking  in  among  the  rest  like  a  stern  face  through  flowers. 


SHAKSPEARE.  129 


Hath  such  force  and  blessed  power. 
Now,  my  Titania ;  wake  you,  my  sweet  queen. 
JHt.  My  Oberon  !  what  visions  hare  I  seen  1 
Methought  I  was  enamored  of  an  ass. 
Ober.  There  lies  your  love. 
Tit.  How  came  these  things  to  pass  ? 

O,  how  mine  eyes  do  loathe  his  visage  now  ! 

Ober.  Silence  awhile.     Robin,  take  off  this  head.— 
Titania,  music  call ;  and  strike  more  dead 
Than  common  sleep,  of  all  these  five  the  sense. 
Tit.  Music  !  ho  !  music  !  such  as  charmeth  sleep. 
Puck.  Now,  when  thou  wak'st,  with  thine  own  fooPs  eyes  peep. 
Ober.  Sound  music!  {still  music.}    Come,   my   queen,  take  hand 
with  me, 
Jlnd  rock  the  ground  whereon  these  sleepers  be.  ^ 

Now  thou  and  I  are  new  in  amity. 
And  will  to-morrow  midnight,  solemnly 
Dance  in  Duke  Theseus'  house  triumphantly, 
And  bless  it  to  all  fair  posterity : 
There  shall  the  pairs  of  faithful  lovers  be 
Wedded,  with  Theseus,  all  in  jollity. 

Puck.  Fairy  king,  attend  and  mark ; 

I  do  hear  the  morning  lark. 
Ober.  Then,  my  queen,  in  silence  sad,* 
Trip  we  after  the  night's  shade. 
We  the  globe  can  compass  soon, 
Swifter  than  the  wandering  moon. 

Tit.  Come,  my  lord,  and  in  our  flight 
Tell  me  how  it  came  this  night. 
That  I  sleeping  here  was  found 

With  these  mortals  on  the  ground.  {Exeunt. 

{Horns  sound  within 


^  Come  from  the  farthest  steep  of  India. 

Shakspeare  understood  the  charm  of  remoteness  in  poetry,  as 
lie  did  everything  else.  Oberon  has  been  dancing  on  the  sunny 
■teeps  looking  towards  Cathay,  where  the 


Chinese  drive 


Their  cany  waggons  light. 
*  5ad.— Grave,  serious  (not  melancholy). 


10 


130  SHAKSPEARE. 


THE  BRroAL  HOUSE  BLESSED  BY  THE  FAIRIES. 
Enter  Puck. 

Puck.  Now  the  hungry  lion  roars,^ 

And  the  wolf  behowls  the  moon, 
While  the  heavy  ploughman  snores. 

All  with  weary  task  fordone. 
Now  the  wasted  brands  do  glow. 

Whilst  the  scritch-owl  scritching  loud, 
Puts  the  wretch  that  lies  in  wOt 

In  remembrance  of  a  shroud. 
Now  it  is  the  time  of  night 

That  the  graves  all  gaping  wide. 
Every  one  lets  forth  his  sprite. 

In  the  churchway  paths  to  glide : 
And  we  fairies  that  do  run 

By  the  triple  Hecate's  team. 
From  the  presence  of  the  sun. 
Following  darkness  like  a  dream. 
Now  are  frolick ;  not  a  mouse 
Shall  disturb  this  hallow'd  house : 
I  am  sent,  with  broom  before. 
To  sweep  the  dust  behind  the  door. 

Enter  Oberon  and  Titania,  with  their  train. 

Ober.  Through  this  house  give  glimmering  light 
By  the  dead  and  drowsy  fire: 
Every  elf  and  fairy  sprite. 
Hop  as  light  as  bird  from  brier  ; 
And  this  ditty  after  me 
Sing  and  dance  it  trippingly. 

Tita.  First  rehearse  this  song  by  rote : 
To  each  word  a  warbling  note. 
Hand  in  hand,  with  fairy  grace. 
Will  we  sing  and  bless  the  place. 

Song  and  Dance 


Ober.  Now,  until  the  break  of  day. 
Through  the  house  each  fairy  stray, 


SKAKSPEARE.  131 


To  the  best  bride-bed  will  we. 

Which  by  us  shall  blessed  be ; 

And  the  issue  there  create  ^ 

Ever  shall  be  fortunate. 

So  shall  all  the  couples  three, 

Ever  true  in  loving  be ; 

And  the  blots  of  Nature's  hand 

Shall  not;  in  their  issue  stand ; 

Never  mole,  hare-lip  or  scar 

Nor  mark  prodigious,  such  as  are 

Despised  in  nativity. 

Shall  upon  their  children  be/ 

With  this  field-dew,  consecrate. 

Every  fairy  take  his  gait ; 

And  each  several  chamber  bless 

Through  this  palace  with  sweet  peace ; 

E'er  shall  it  in  safety  rest,  -w 

And  the  owner  of  it  blest 
.  Trip  away ; 

Make  no  stay : 

Meet  me  all  by  break  of  day. 

« "  JVow  the  hungry  lion  roars  .-"—Upon  the  songs  of  Puck  and 
Oberon,  Coleridge  exclaims,  "  Very  Anacreon  in  perfectness, 
proportion,  and  spontaneity !  So  far  it  is  Greek ;  but  then  add, 
O !  what  wealth,  what  wild  rangings  and  yet  what  compression 
and  condensation  of  English  fancy !  In  truth,  there  is  nothing 
in  Anacreon  more  perfect  than  these  thirty  lines,  or  half  so  rich 
and  imaginative.  They  form  a  speckless  diamond." — Literary 
Remains,  vol.  ii.,  p.  114. 


LOVERS  AND  MUSIC. 

Lorenzo  and  Jessica,  awaiting  the  return  home  of  Portia  and  Ne- 
RissA,  discourse  of  musict  and  then  welcome  with  it  the  bride  and 
her  attendant. 

Lor.  The  moon  shines  bright.    In  such  a  night  as  thisP 
When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees. 


132  SHAKSPEARE. 


And  they  did  make  no  noise, — in  such  a  night 
Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls, 
And  sighed  his  soul  towards  the  Grecian  tents,^ 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night 

Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew ; 
And  saw  the  lion's  shadow  ere  himself,^ 
And  ran  dismay'd  away. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night 

Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  handio 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks,  and  wav'd  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night 

Medea  gather'd  the  enchanted  herbs^i 
That  did  renew  old  ^son. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night 

Did  Jessica  steal  from  the  wealthy  Jew ; 
And  with  an  unthrift  love  did  run  from  Venice, 
As  far  as  Belmont.  ^ 

Jes.  And  in  such  a  night 

Did  young  Lorenzo  swear  he  lov'd  her  well ; 
Stealing  her  soul  with  many  rows  of  faith, 
And  ne'er  a  true  onv. 

Lor.  And  in  such  a  night 

Did  pretty  Jessica,  like  a  little  shrew. 
Slander  her  love,  and  he  forgave  it  her. 

Jes.  1  would  out-night  you,  did  nobody  come ; 
But,  hark  ;  I  hear  the  footing  of  a  man. 

Enter  Stephano. 

Lor.  Who  comes  so  fast  in  silence  of  the  night? 

Step.  A  friend. 

Lor.  A  friend  !  what  friend  ?  your  name,  I  pray  you,  friend  ? 

Step.  Stephano  is  my  name ;  and  I  bring  word 
My  mistress  will,  before  the  break  of  day, 
Be  here  at  Belmont :  she  doth  stray  about 
By  holy  crosses,  y^^here  she  kneels  and  prays 
For  happy  wedlock  hours. 

Lor.  Who  comes  with  her  ? 

Step.  None  but  a  holy  hermit  and  her  maid, 

Lor.  Sweet  soul,  let 's  in,  and  there  expect  their  coming. 
And  yet  no  matter ;  why  should  we  go  in  ? 
My  friend  Stephano,  signify,  I  pray  you. 
Within  the  house,  your  mistress  is  at  hand ; 
And  bring  your  music  forth  into  the  air. 

{Exit  Stephano. 


SHAKSPEARE.  133 


How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  the  hank  ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  into  our  ears ;  soft  stillness  and  the  nighty 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  h  armony. 
Sit,  Jessica :  look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines*  of  bright  gold ; 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st,'* 
But  in  her  motion  like  an  angel  singSy 
•Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cheruUms  ; 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls  ; 
But,  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  tis  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. 

Enter  Musicians. 

Come,  ho!  and  wake  Diana  with  a  hymn; 

With  sweetest  touches  pierce  your  mistress'  ear. 

And  draw  her  home  with  music.  {Music. 

Jes.  I  am  never  merry  when  I  hear  sweet  music. 

Lor.  The  reason  is,  your  spirits  are  attentive  : 
For  do  but  note  a  wild  and  wanton  herd, 
A  race  of  youthful  and  unhanded  colts. 
Fetching  mad  bounds, — bellowing  and  neighing  loupl. 
Which  is  the  hot  condition  of  their  blood  ; 
If  they  but  hear,  perchance,  a  trumpet  sound, 
Or  any  air  of  music  touch  their  ears, 
You  shall  perceive  them  make  a  mutual  stand — 
Their  savage  eyes  turned  to  a  modest  gaze 
By  the  sweet  power  of  music.     Therefore  the  poet 
Did  feign  that  Orpheus  drew  trees,  stones,  and  floods. 
Since  naught  so  stockish,  hard,  and  full  of  rage, 
But  music  for  the  time  doth  change  its  nature. 
The  man  that  hath  no  music  in  himself, 
JVor  is  not  mov'd  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds. 
Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils  ; 
The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night. 
And  his  affections  dark  as  Erebus : 
Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. — Mark  the  music. 

*  Patines  (Patine,  Pat6ne,  Ital.)  have  been  generally  understood  to  mean 
plates  of  gold  or  silver  used  in  the  Catholic  service.  A  new  and  interesting 
commentator,  however  (the  Rev.  Mr.  Hunter),  is  of  opinion  that  the  proper 
word  is  patterns. 


134  *«  SHAKSPEARE. 


Enter  Portia  and  Nerissa,  at  a  distance. 

Por.  That  light  we  see  is  burning  in  my  hall ; 
How  far  that  little  candle  throws  its  beams/ 
So  shines  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world. 

JVer.  When  the  moon  shone,  we  did  not  see  the  candle 

Por.  So  doth  the  greater  glory  dim  the  less : 
A  substitute  shines  brightly  as  a  king. 
Until  a  king  be  by ;  and  then  his  state 
Empties  himself,  as  doth  the  inland  brook 
Into  the  main  of  waters.     Music  !  hark  ! 

JVer.  It  is  your  music,  madam,  of  the  house 

Por.  Nothing  is  good  I  see  without  respect; 
Methinks  it  sounds  much  sweeter  than  by  day. 

JVer.  Silence  bestows  that  virtue  on  it,  madam. 

Por.  The  crow  doth  sing  as  sweetly  as  the  lark. 
When  neither  is  attended ;  and,  I  think. 
The  nightingale,  if  she  should  sing  by  day, 
When  every  goose  is  cackling,  would  be  thought 
No  better  a  musician  than  the  wren. 
How  many  things  by  season,  season'd  are. 
To  their  right  praise,  and  true  perfection  ! 
Peace,  hoa  !  the  moon  sleeps  toith  Endymion, 
And  would  not  be  awaJc'd  !  •  {Music  ceases. 

Lor.  That  is  the  voice. 

Or  I  am  much  deceiv'd,  of  Portia. 

Por.  He  knows  me,  as  the  blind  man  knows  the  cuckoo. 
By  the  bad  voice. 

Lor.  Dear  lady,  welcome  home.^3 

' "  In  such  a  night  as  this,"  &c — All  the  stories  here  alluded  to, — 
Troilus  and  Cressida,  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  Dido  and  ^Eneas, 
Jason  and  Medea,  are  in  Chaucer's  Legend  of  Good  Women.  It 
is  pleasant  to  see  our  great  poet  so  full  of  his  predecessor.  He 
cannot  help,  however,  inventing  particulars  not  to  be  found  in 
his  original. 

8  And  sighed  his  soul.  Sec. 

*'  The  day  go'th  fast,  and  after  that  came  eve. 
And  yet  came  not  Troilus  to  Crescid : 
He  looketh  forth  by  hedge,  by  tree,  by  greve  (grove), 
And  far  his  head  over  the  wall  he  laid." 

Clarke's  Chaucer,  vol.  ii.,  p.  151. 

» "  And  saw  the  lion's  shadow." — Thisbe  in  Chaucer  does  not  see 


SHAKSPEARE.  13? 


the  shadow  before  she  sees  the  beast  (a  fine  idea  !) ;  nor  does  she 
in  Ovid.     In  both  poets  it  is  a  lioness  seen  by  moonlight. 

"  With  bloody  mouth,  of  strangling  of  a  beast." 

Caede  leaena  bourn  spumantes  oblita  rictus. 

Metam.,  lib.  iv.,  v.  97. 

w  "Stood  Dido  With  a  willow  in  her  Aawrf."— The  willow,  a  symbol 
of  being  forsaken,  is  not  in  Chaucer.  It  looks  as  if  Shakspeare 
had  seen  it  in  a  picture,  where  it  would  be  more  necessary  than 
in  a  poem. 

11  "  Medea  gathered  the  enchanted  Aer6»."— Shakspeare  has  here 
gone  from  Chaucer  to  Gower.  Warton,  in  his  Observations  on 
the  Faerie  Queene,  vol.  i.,  p.  361,  edit.  1807,  has  noticed  a 
passage  in  Gower's  story,  full  of  imagination.  The  poet  is 
speaking  of  Medea  going  out  upon  the  business  noticed  by 
Shakspeare. 

Thus  it  fell  upon  a  night. 

When  there  was  naught  but  starrie  light. 

She  was  vanish'd  right  as  she  list, 

That  no  wight  but  herself  wist, 

And  that  was  at  midnight  tide. 

The  world  was  still  on  every  side. 

With  open  head  and  foot  all  bare  ; 

Her  hair  too  spread,  she  'gan  to  fare  ; 

Upon  her  clothes  girt  she  was, 

And  speecheless,  upon  the  grass. 

She  glode*  forth,  as  an  adder  doth. 

^  "  There s  not  the  smallest  or5."— The  "warbler  of  wood-notes 
wild"  has  here  manifestly  joined  with  Plato  and  other  learned 
spirits  to  suggest  to  Milton  his  own  account  of  the  Music  of  the 
Spheres,  which  every  reader  of  taste,  I  think,  must  agree  with 
Mr.  Knight  in  thinking  "  less  perfect  in  sentiment  and  har- 
mony."— Pictorial  Shakspeare,  vol.  ii.,  p.  448.  The  best  thing 
in  it  is  what  is  observed  by  Warton :  that  the  listening  to  the 
spheres  is  the  recreation  of  the  Genius  of  the  Wood  (the  speaker) 
after  his  day's  duty,  "  when  the  world  is  locked  up  in  sleep  and 
silence." 

*  Glode,  is  glided.  If  Chaucer's  contemporary  had  written  often  thus, 
his  name  would  have  been  as  famous. 


# 


136  SHAKSPEARE. 


Then  listen  I 
To  the  celestial  Sirens'  harmony, 
That  sit  upon  the  nine  infolded  spheres. 
And  sing  to  those  that  hold  the  vital  shears, 
And  turn  the  adamantine  spindle  round, 
On  which  the  fate  of  gods  and  men  is  wound. 
Such  sweet  compulsion  doth  in  music  lie 
To  lull  the  daughters  of  Necessity, 
And  keep  unsteady  Nature  in  her  law. 
And  the  low  world  in  measur'd  motion  draw 
After  the  heavenly  tune,  which  none  can  hear 
Of  human  mould,  with  gross  unpurged  ear. 

Arcades^  v.  62. 

The  best  account  I  remember  to  have  read  of  the  Music  of  the 
Spheres  is  in  the  History  of  Music  by  Hawkins. 

w  "  Dear  lady^  welcome  home."— ]^ ever  was  a  sweeter  or  more 
fitting  and  bridal  elegance,  than  in  the  whole  of  this  scene,  in 
which  gladness  and  seriousness  prettily  struggle,  each  alternate- 
ly yielding  predominance  to  the  other.  The  lovers  are  at  once 
in  heaven  and  earth.  The  new  bride  is  "drawn  home"  with  the 
soul  of  love  in  the  shape  of  music  ;  and  to  keep  her  giddy  spirits 
down,  she  preached  that  little  womanly  sermon  upon  a  good  deed 
shining  in  a  "naughty  world."  The  whole  play  is,  in  one  sense 
of  the  word,  the  most  picturesque  in  feeling  of  all  Shakspeare's. 
The  sharp  and  malignant  beard  of  the  Jew  (himself  not  unrecon- 
ciled  to  us  by  the  affections)  comes  harmlessly  against  the  soft 
cheek  of  love. 


ANTONY  AND  THE  CLOUDS. 

Jlnt.  Eros,  thou  yet  behold'st  me  ? 

Eros.  Ay,  noble  lord. 

Ant.  Sometime  we  see  a  cloud  thafs  dragonish  : 
A  vapor  sometime ;  like  a  bear,  or  lion, 
A  tower'd  citadel,  a  pendant  rock, 
A  forked  mountain,  or  blue  promontory 
With  trees  upon^t  that  nod  unto  the  worlds 
And  mock  our  eyes  with  air  ;  thou  hast  seen  these  signs ; 
They  are  black  Vesper's  pageants 

Eros.  Ay,  my  lord. 


SHAKSPEARE.  137 


Ant   That  which  is  now  a  horse,  even  with  a  thought 
The  rack  dislimns  ;  and  makes  it  indistinct, 
j3«  water  is  in  water. 

Eros.  It  does,  my  lord. 

Ant.  My  good  knave,  Eros,  now  thy  captain  is 
Even  such  a  body  : — here  I  am, — Antony — 
Yet  cannot  hold  this  shape. 


YOUNG  WARRIORS. 

Hotspur.  My  cousin  Vernon !  welcome,  by  my  soul ! 

Sir  Richard  Vernon.  Pray  God,  my  news  be  worth  a  welcome,  lord 
The  Earl  of  Westmoreland,  seven  thousand  strong,     . 
Is  marching  hitherwards ;  with  him.  Prince  John. 

Hot.  No  harm  :  what  more  ? 

Ver.  And  further,  I  have  learn'd, — 
The  king  himself  in  person  is  set  forth. 
Or  hitherwards  intended  speedily. 
With  strong  and  mighty  preparation. 

Hot.  He  shall  be  welcome  too.     Where  is  his  son, 
The  nimble-footed  mad-cap  Prince  of  Wales, 
And  his  comrades,  that  doffed  the  world  aside, 
And  bid  it  pass  ? 

Ver.  All  furnished,  all  in  arms. 
All  plumed  like  estridges  that  wing  the  wind  ; 
Bated  like  eagles  having  lately  bathed ; 
Glittering  in  golden  coats,  like  images  ; 
As  full  of  spirit  as  the  month  of  May 
And  gorgeous  as  the  sun  at  midsummer ; 
Wanton  as  youthful  goats,  wild  as  young  bulla, 
I  saw  young  Harry, — ^with  his  beaver  on. 
His  cuises  on  his  thighs,  gallantly  arm'd, — 
Rise  from  the  ground  like  feather" d  Mercury, 
And  vaulted  with  such  ease  into  his  seat. 
As  if  an  angel  dropped  down  from,  the  clouds, 
'jTo  turn  and  wind  a  fiery  Pegasus, 
And  witch  the  world  with  noble  horsemanship. 

Hot.  No  more,  no  more ;  worse  than  the  sun  in  March, 
This  praise  doth  nourish  agues.     Let  them  come  ; 
They  come  like  sacrifices  in  their  trim. 
And  to  thefire-ey'd  maid  of  smoky  war. 


138  SHAKSPEARE 


All  hot,  and  bleeding,  will  we  offer  them  ; 
The  mailed  Mars  shall  on  his  altar  sit, 
Up  to  the  ears  in  blood.     I  am  on  fire. 
To  hear  this  rich  reprisal  is  so  nigh. 
And  yet  not  ours  : — Come,  let  me  take  my  horse, 
Who  is  to  bear  me,  like  a  thunder-bolt, 
Against  the  bosom  of  the  Prince  of  Wales : 
Harry  to  Harry  shall,  hot  (query  not  ?)  horse  to  horse,^^ 
Meet,  and  ne'er  part,  till  one  drop  down  a  corse. 

"  "  Harry  to  Harry  shall,  hot  horse  to  horse.*'— I  cannot  help  think- 
ing  that  the  word  hot  in  this  line  ought  to  be  not.  "  Hot  horse  to 
horse"  is  not  a  very  obvious  mode  of  .speech,  and  it  is  too  obvi- 
ous an  image.  The  horses  undoubtedly  would  be  hot  enough. 
But  does  not  Hotspur  mean  to  say  that  the  usual  shock  of  horses 
will  not  be  sufficient  for  the  extremity  of  his  encounter  with  the 
Prince  of  Wales ;  their  own  bodies  are  to  be  dashed  together, 
and  not  merely  the  horses  : 

14  Harry  to  Harry  shall,  not  horse  to  horse : 

SO  closely  does  he  intend  that  their  combat  shall  hug. 


IMOGEN   IN    BED. 

(from  gymbeline.) 

(Jachimo,  dared  by  Imogen's  husband  to  make  trial  of  her  fidelity,  hides 
iu  her  chamber  in  order  to  bring  away  pretended  proofs  against  it.) 

Imo.  {reading  in  bed.)  Who's  there  ?  my  woman  Helen  ? 

Lady.  Please  you,  madam. 

Imo.  What  hour  is  it  ? 

Lady.  Almost  midnight,  madam. 

Imo.  I  have  read  three  hours  then :  mine  eyes  are  weak : 
Fold  down  the  leaf  where  I  have  left : — to  bed  : 
Take  not  away  the  taper ;  leave  it  burning  : 
And  if  thou  canst  awake  by  four  o'  the  clock, 
I  prithee,  call  me.     Sleep  hath  seized  me  wholly. 

\_Exit  Lady. 
To  your  protection  I  commend  me,  Gods  ! 
From  fairies,  and  the  tempters  of  the  night. 


SHAKSPEARE.  139 


Guard  me,  I  beseech  ye  / 

[Sleeps.    Jacuimo,  from  the  trunk. 
Jaeh.  The  crickets  sing,  and  man's  o'er-labor'd  sense 
Repairs  itself  by  rest :  our  Tarquin  thus 
Did  softly  press  the  rushes,  ere  he  waken'd 
The  chastity  he  wounded. — Cytherea, 
How  bravely  thou  eonCst  thy  bed  .'fresh  lily. 
And  whiter  than  the  sheets !  that  I  might  touch  ! 
But  kiss ;  one  kiss  ! — Rubies  unparagon'd. 
How  dearly  they  do  't — '  Tis  her  breathing  that 
Perfumes  the  chamber  thus: — the  flame  o'  the  taper 
Bows  towards  her  ;  and  would  under-peep  her  lids. 
To  see  the  enclosed  lights  ;  now  canopied 
Under  those  windows,  white  and  azure,  lac'd 
With  blue  of  heaven's  own  tint.     But  my  design 
To  note  the  chamber, — I  will  write  all  down  : 
Such  and  such  pictures : — there  the  window :  such 
The  adornment  of  her  bed : — the  arras,  figures. 
Why,  such  and  such, — and  the  contents  o'  the  story. 
Ah,  but  some  natural  notes  about  her  body 
Above  ten  thousand  meaner  movables 
Would  testify,  to  enrich  mine  inventory. 
0  sleep,  thou  ape  of  Death,  lie  dull  upon  her  ! 
And  be  her  sense  but  as  a  monument. 
Thus  in  a  chapel  lying ! — Come  off,  come  off; 

ITakes  off  her  bracelet. 
As  slippery,  as  the  Gordian  knot  was  hard  ! 
'Tis  mine,  and  this  will  witness  outwardly. 
As  strongly  as  the  conscience  does  within. 
To  the  madding  of  her  lord.     On  her  left  breast, 
Jl  mole,  cinque-spotted,  like  the  crimson  drops 
r  the  bottom  of  a  cowslip.     Here's  a  voucher. 
Stronger  than  ever  law  could  make :  this  secret 
Will  force  him  think  I  have  pick'd  the  lock,  and  ta'en 
The  treasure  of  her  honor.     No  more.     To  what  end  ? 
Why  should  I  write  this  down  that's  riveted, 
Screw'd,  to  my  memory  ?     She  hath  been  reading  late 
The  tale  of  Tereus  ;  here  the  leaf's  turn'd  down 
Where  Philomel  gave  up  : — I  have  enough  : — 
To  the  trunk  again,  and  shut  the  spring  of  it. 
Swift,  swift,  you  dragons  of  the  night,  that  dawning 
May  bare  the  raven's  eye !     I  lodge  in  fear ; 
Though  this  a  heavenly  angel,  hell  is  here. 

IClock  strikes. 
One,  two,  three, — Time,  time ! 

[  Goes  into  the  trunk.     The  scene  closes. 


140  BEN  JONSON 


BEN  JONSON, 

BORN,    1574, — DIED,  1637. 


If  Ben  Jonson  had  not  tried  to  do  half  what  he  did,  he  would 
have  had  a  greater  fame.  His  will  and  ambition  hurt  him,  as 
they  always  hurt  genius  when  set  in  front  of  it.  Lasting  repu- 
tation of  power  is  only  to  be  obtained  by  power  itself;  and  this, 
in  poetry,  is  the  result  not  so  much,  if  at  all,  of  the  love  of  the 
power,  as  of  the  power  of  love, — the  love  of  truth  and  beauty, — 
great  and  potent  things  they, — not  the  love  of  self,  which  is 
generally  a  very  little  thing.  The  "  supposed  rugged  old 
bard,"  notwithstanding  his  huffing  and  arrogance,  had  elegance, 
feeling,  imagination,  great  fancy ;  but  by  straining  to  make 
them  all  greater  than  they  were,  bringing  in  the  ancients  to 
help  him,  and  aiming  to  include  the  lowest  farce  (perhaps  by 
way  of  outdoing  the  universality  of  Shakspeare),  he  became 
as  gross  in  his  pretensions,  as  drink  had  made  him  in  person. 
His  jealous  irritability  and  assumption  tired  out  the  gentlest  and 
most  generous  of  his  contemporaries — men  who  otherwise  really 
liked  him  (and  he  them), — Decker  for  one  ;  and  he  has  ended  in 
appearing  to  posterity  rather  the  usurper  than  the  owner  of  a 
true  renown.  He  made  such  a  fuss  with  his  learning,  that  he  is 
now  suspected  to  have  had  nothing  else.  Hazlitt  himself  can- 
not give  him  credit  for  comic  genius,  so  grave  and  all-in-all  does 
his  pedantry  appear  to  that  critic, — an  erroneous  judgment,  as 
it  seems  to  me, — who  cannot  help  thinking,  that  what  altogether 
^  made  Ben  what  he  was  projected  his  ultra-jovial  person  rather 
towards  comedy  than  tragedy  ;  and  as  a  proof  of  this,  his  trage- 
dies are  all  borrowed,  but  his  comedies  his  own.  Twelfth 
Night  and  other  plays  of  Shakspeare  preceded  and  surpassed 


BEN  JONSON.  141 


him  in  his  boasted  "  humor ;"  but  his  Alchemist,  and  especially 
his  Volpone,  seem  to  me  at  the  head  of  all  severer  English 
comedy.  The  latter  is  a  masterpiece  of  plot  and  treatment. 
Ben's  fancy,  a  power  tending  also  rather  to  the  comic  than 
tragic,  was  in  far  greater  measure  than  his  imagination  ;  and 
their  strongest  united  efforts,  as  in  the  Witches'  Meeting,  and 
the  luxurious  anticipations  of  Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  produce  a 
smiling  as  well  as  a  serious  admiration.  The  three  happiest  of 
all  his  short  effusions  (two  of  which  are  in  this  volume)  are  the 
epitaph  on  Lady  Pembroke,  the  address  to  Cynthia  (both  of 
which  are  serious  indeed,  but  not  tragic),  and  the  Catch  of  the 
Satyrs,  which  is  unique  for  its  wild  and  melodious  mixture  of 
the  comic  and  the  poetic.  His  huge  farces,  to  be  sure  (such  as 
Bartholomew  Fair),  are  execrable.  They  seem  to  talk  for  talk- 
ing's  sake,  like  drunkards.  And  though  his  famous  verses, 
beginning  "  Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest,"  are  elegantly 
worded,  I  never  could  admire  them.  There  is  a  coarseness 
implied  in  their  very  refinement. 

After  all,  perhaps  it  is  idle  to  wish  a  writer  had  been  other- 
wise than  he  was,  especially  if  he  is  an  original  in  his  way,  and 
worthy  of  admiration.  His  faults  he  may  have  been  unable  to 
mend,  and  they  may  not  have  been  without  their  use,  even  to 
his  merits.  If  Ben  had  not  been  Ben,  Sir  Epicure  Mammon 
might  not  have  talked  in  so  high  a  tone.  We  should  have 
missed,  perhaps,  something  of  the  excess  and  altitude  of  his  ex- 
pectations— of  his 

Gums  of  Paradise  and  eastern  air. 

Let  it  not  be  omitted,  that  Milton  went  to  the  masques  and 
odes  of  Ben  Jonson  for  some  of  the  elegances  even  of  his  digni- 
fied muse.  See  Warton's  edition  of  his  Minor  Poems,  passim. 
Our  extracts  shall  commence  with  one  of  these  odes,  combining 
classic  elegance  with  a  tone  of  modern  feeling,  and  a  music  like 
a  serenade. 


142  BEN  JONSON. 


TO  CYNTfflA;-.THE  MOON. 

Queen  of  hunters,  chaste  and  fair, 

Now  the  sun  is  laid  asleep. 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chairs 
State  in  wonted  manner  keep, 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 
CroddesSf  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose  ; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 
Heav'n  to  clear,  when  day  did  close. 
Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight, 
Goddess,  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart, 

And  thy  crystal  shining  quiver ; 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart 
Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever ; 
Thou,  that  mak'st  a  day  ofnightt 
Groddess,  excellently  bright. 


THE  LOVE-MAKING  OP  LUXURY. 

Volpone  makes  love  to  Celia. 

Volp.  See,  behold. 

What  thou  art  queen  of ;  not  in  expectation, 
As  I  feed  others,  but  possess'd  and  crown'd. 
See  here,  a  rope  of  pearl ;  and  each,  more  orient 
Than  that  the  brave  -(Egyptian  queen  caroused  : 
Dissolve  and  drink  them.     See,  a  carbuncle. 
May  put  out  both  the  eyes  of  our  St.  Mark ; 
A  diamond  would  have  bought  LoUia  Pauliner, 
When  she  came  in  like  star-light,  hid  with  jewels. 
That  were  the  spoils  of  provinces  ;  take  these 
And  wear  and  lose  them ;  yet  remains  an  ear-ring 


BEN  JONSON.  143 


To  purchase  them  again,  and  this  whole  state. 

A  gem  but  worth  a  private  patrimony. 

Is  nothing  :  we  will  eat  such  at  a  meal. 

The  heads  of  parrots,  tongues  of  nightingales. 

The  brains  of  peacocks,  and  of  estriches. 

Shall  be  our  food :  andy  could  we  get  the  phcenixy 

Though  nature  lost  her  kind,  she  were  our  dish. 

Cel.  Good  sir,  these  things  might  move  a  mind  affected 
With  such  delights ;  but  I,  whose  innocence 
Is  all  I  can  think  wealthy,  or  worth  th'  enjoying. 
And  which,  once  lost,  I  have  naught  to  lose  beyond  it, 
Cannot  be  taken  with  these  sensual  baits  : 
If  you  have  conscience 

Volp.  'Tis  the  beggar's  virtue : 

If  thou  had  wisdom,  hear  me,  Celia. 
Thy  baths  shall  be  the  juice  of  July  flowers, 
Spirit  of  roses  and  of  violets. 
The  milk  of  unicorns,  and  panthers'  breath 
Gather'd  in  bags,  and  mixt  with  Cretan  wines. 
Our  drink  shall  be  prepared  gold  and  amber ; 
Which  we  will  take  until  my  roof  whirl  round 
With  the  vertigo  :  and  my  dwarf  shall  dance. 
My  eunuch  sing,  my  fool  make  up  the  antic ; 
Whilst  we,  in  changed  shape,  act  Ovid's  tales ; 
Thou,  like  Europa  now,  and  I  like  Jove ; 
Then  I  like  Mars,  and  thou  like  Erycine  : 
So,  of  the  rest,  till  we  have  quite  run  through 
And  wearied  all  the  fables  of  the  gods. 


TOWERING  SENSUALITY. 

Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  expecting  to  obtain  the  Philosopher's  Stone^ 
riots  in  the  anticipation  of  enjoyment. 

Enter  Mammon  and  Surly. 

Mam.  Come  on,  sir.    Now,  you  set  your  foot  on  shore 
In  JVovo  Orbe :  here's  the  rich  Peru : 
And  there  within,  sir,  are  the  golden  wines. 
Great  Solomon's  Ophir  !  he  was  sailing  to  't 
Three  years  ;  but  we  have  reached  it  in  ten  months. 
This  is  the  day,  wherein  to  all  my  friends, 
I  will  pronounce  the  happy  word,  Be  rich. 
Where  is  my  Subtle  there  !    Within ! 


144  BEN  JONSON. 


Enter  Face. 

How  now  ? 
Do  we  succeed  ?    Is  our  day  come  ?  and  holds  it ' 

Face.  The  evening  will  set  red  upon  you,  sir ; 
You  have  color  for  it,  crimson  :  the  red  ferment 
Has  done  his  office :  three  hours  hence  prepare  you 
To  see  projection. 

Mam.  Pertinax,  my  Surly, 
Again  I  say  to  thee,  aloud,  Be  rich. 
This  day  thou  shalt  have  ingots  ;  and  to-morrow 
Give  lords  the  affront. — Is  it,  my  Zephyrus,  right  ? — 
Thou'rt  sure  thou  saw'st  it  blood  ? 

Face.  Both  blood  and  spirit,  sir. 

Mam.  I  will  have  all  my  beds  blown  up,  not  stuff 'd : 
Down  is  too  hard. — My  mists 
I'll  have  of  perfume,  vapored  'bout  the  room 
To  lose  ourselves  in  ;  and  my  baths,  like  pits, 
To  fall  into :  from  whence  we  will  come  forth, 
And  roll  us  dry  in  gossamer  and  roses. 
Is  it  arriv'd  at  ruby  ?— And  my  flatterers 
Shall  be  the  pure  and  gravest  of  divines. — 
And  they  shall  fan  me  with  ten  estrich  tails 
A-piece,  made  in  a  plume  to  gather  wind. 
We  will  be  brave,  PufFe,  now  we  have  the  med'cine 
My  meat  shall  all  come  in,  in  Indian  shells. 
Dishes  of  agate,  set  in  gold,  and  studded 
With  emeralds,  sapphires,  hyacinths,  and  rubies. 
The  tongues  of  carps,  dor>mice,  and  camels'  heels, 
Boil'd  in  the  spirit  of  sol,  and  dissolved  pearl, 
Apicius'  diet  'gainst  the  epilepsy : 
And  I  will  eat  these  broths  with  spoons  of  amber. 
Headed  with  diamond  and  carbuncle. 
My  foot-boy  shall  eat  pheasants,  calver'd  salmons. 
Knots,  godwits,  lampreys :  I  myself  will  have 
The  beards  of  barbels  serv'd,  instead  of  salads ; 
Oil'd  mushrooms ;  and  the  swelling,  unctuous  paps 
Of  a  fat  pregnant  sow,  newly  cut  off, 
Drest  with  an  exquisite  and  poignant  sauce, 
For  which  I'll  say  unto  my  cook,  "  There's  gold; 
Go  forth,  and  be  a  knight." 

Face.  Sir,  I'll  go  look 

A  little,  how  it  heightens. 

[Exit  Fack 

Mam.  Do.    My  shirts 

I'll  have  of  taffeta-sarsnet,  soft  and  light 


BEN  JONSON.  14& 


As  cobwebs ;  and  for  all  my  other  raiment. 
It  shall  be  such  as  might  provoke  the  Persian, 
Were  he  to  teach  the  world  riot  anew. 
My  gloves  of  fishes  and  birds'  skins,  perfum'd 
With  gums  of  Paradise  and  eastern  air. 

Sur.  And  do  you  think  to  have  the  stone  with  this  ? 

Mam.     No  ;  I  do  think  t'  have  all  this  with  the  stone  ! 

Sur   Why,  I  have  heard  he  must  be  homofrugit 
A  pious,  holy,  and  religious  man. 
One  free  from  mortal  sin,  a  very  virgin. 

Mam.  That  makes  it.  Sir ;  he  is  so ;  but  I  buy  it. 


THE  WITCH. 
From  the  Pastoral  Fragment,  entitled  "  ITie  Sad  Shepherd.* 

Aiken.  Know  ye  the  witch's  dell  ? 

Scathlock.  No  more  than  I  do  know  the  walks  of  hell. 

Aiken.  Within  a  gloomy  dimble  she  doth  dwell, 
Down  in  a  pit,  o'ergrown  with  brakes  and  briars. 
Close  by  the  ruins  of  a  shaken  abbey. 
Torn  with  an  earthquake  down  unto  the  ground, 
*Mongst  graves  and  grots,  near  an  old  charnel-house, 
Where  you  shall  find  her  sitting  in  her  form, 
As  fearful  and  melancholic  as  that 
She  is  about ;  with  caterpillars'  kells. 
And  knotty  cobwebs,  rounded  in  with  spells. 
Then  she  steals  forth  to  relief  in  the  fogs. 
And  rotten  mists,  upon  the  fens  and  bogs, 
Down  to  the  drowned  lands  of  Lincolnshire  ; 
To  make  ewes  cast  their  lambs,  swine  eat  their  farrow. 
And  housewives'  tun  not  work,  nor  the  milk  churn  ! 
Writhe  children's  wrists,  and  suck  their  breath  in  sleep, 
Get  vials  of  their  blood  !  and  where  the  sea 
Casts  up  his  slimy  ooze,  search  for  a  weed 
To  open  locks  with,  and  to  rivet  charms. 
Planted  about  her  in  the  wicked  feat 
Of  all  her  mischiefs ;  which  are  manifold. 

John.  I  wonder  such  a  story  could  be  told 
Of  her  dire  deeds. 

George.  I  thought  a  witch's  banks 

Had  inclosed  nothing  but  the  merry  pranks 
Of  some  old  woman. 

11 


146  BEN  JONSON. 


Scarlet.  Yes,  her  malice  tnore. 

Scath   As  it  would  quickly  appear  had  we  the  store 
Of  his  collects. 

George.  Ay,  this  good  learned  mbji 

Can  speak  her  right. 

Scar.  He  knows  her  shifts  and  haunts 

Aiken.  And  all  her  wiles  and  turns.     The  venom'd  plants 
Wherewith  she  kills  1  where  the  sad  mandrake  grows. 
Whose  groans  are  deathful ;  and  dead-numbing  night-shade, 
The  stupefying  hemlock,  adder's  tongue. 
And  martagan :  the  shrieks  of  luckless  owls 
We  hear,  and  croaking  night  crows  in  the  air  ! 
Green-bellied  snakes,  blue  fire-drakes  in  the  sky. 
And  giddy  flitter-mice  with  leather  wings ! 
The  scaly  beetles,  with  their  habergeons. 
That  make  a  humming  murmur  as  they  fly  ! 
There  in  the  stocks  of  trees,  white  fairies  do  dwells 
JLnd  span-long  elves  that  dance  about  apool^ 
With  each  a  little  changeling  in  their  arms  ! 
The  airy  spirits  play  with  falling  stars. 
And  mount  the  spheres  of  fire  to  kiss  the  moon  ! 
While  she  sits  reading  by  the  glow-worm's  light, 
Or  rotten  wood,  o'er  which  the  worm  hath  crept^ 
The  baneful  schedule  of  her  nocent  charms. 


A  MEETING  OF  WITCHES 

POB  THE  PURPOSE  OF  IX)ING  A  MISCHIEF   TO  A  JOYFUL  HOUSE,  AND  BBII> 
ING  AN   EVIL   SPIRIT  INTO  BIRTH  IN  THE  MIDST  OF  IT. 

From  the  Masque  of  Queens, 

Charm.  The  owl  is  abroad,  the  bat  and  the  toad. 

And  so  is  the  cat-a-mountain  ; 
The  ant  and  the  mole  both  sit  in  a  hole^ 

And  the  frog  peeps  out  of  the  fountain 
The  dogs  they  do  bay,  and  the  timbrels  play 

The  spindle  is  now  a  turning ; 
The  moon  it  is  red,  and  the  stars  are  fled. 

But  all  the  sky  is  a-burning. 


BEN  JONSON.  147 


1st  Hag.  I  have  been  all  day  looking  after 
A  raven,  feeding  upon  a  quarter ; 
And  soon  as  she  turn'd  her  beak  to  the  south, 
I  snatch'd  this  morsel  out  d(  her  mouth 

2nd  Hag.  I  have  been  gathering  wolves'  hairs. 

The  mad  dog's  foam,  and  the  adder's  ears ; 
The  spurging  of  a  dead  man's  eyes, 
And  all  since  the  evening  star  did  rise 

3rd  Hag.  I,  last  night,  lay  all  alone 

On  the  ground  to  hear  the  mandrake  groan  ; 
And  pluck'd  him  up,  though  he  grew  full  low. 
And  as  had  done,  the  cock  did  crow. 

Ath  Hag.  And  I  have  been  choosing  out  this  skull 
From  charnel-houses  that  were  full ; 
From  private  grots,  and  public  pits  ; 
And  frightened  a  sexton  out  of  his  tints. 

5th  Hag.  Under  a  cradle  I  did  creep, 

By  day ;  and  when  the  child  was  asleep 
At  night,  I  suck'd  the  breath  ;  and  rose. 
And  pluck'd  the  nodding  nurse  by  the  nose. 

6th  Hag.  I  had  a  dagger :  what  did  I  with  that  ? 
KilPd  an  infant  to  have  his  fat. 
I  scratch'd  out  the  eyes  of  the  owl  before, 
I  tore  the  baf  s  wing ;  what  would  you  have  more  ? 

Dame.      Yes,  I  have  brought  to  help  our  vows 
Horned  poppy,  cypress  boughs. 
The  fig-tree  wild  that  grows  on  tombs, 
And  juice  that  from  the  larch-tree  comes. 
The  basilisk's  blood  and  the  viper's  skin ; 
And  now  our  orgies  let  us  begin. 

You  fiends  and  fairies,  if  yet  any  be 

Worse  than  ourselves,  you  that  have  quak'd  to  see 

These  knots  untied  (she  unties  them) — exhale  earth's  rottenest 

vapors, 
And  strike  a  blindness  through  these  blazing  tapers 

Charm.  Deep,  0  deep  we  lay  thee  to  sleep , 

We  leave  thee  drink  by,  if  thou  chance  to  be  dry ; 


148  BEN  JONSON. 


Both  milk  and  blood,  the  dew  and  the  flood ; 
We  breathe  in  thy  bed,  at  the  foot  and  the  head  ; 
And  when  thou  dost  wake.  Dame  Earth  shall  qtiake 
Such  a  birth  to  make,  as  is  the  Blue  Drake. 

Dame.    Stay ;  all  our  charms  do  nothing  win 
Upon  the  night ;  our  labor  dies, 
Our  magic  feature  will  not  rise. 
Nor  yet  the  storm  !    We  must  repeat 
More  direful  voices  far,  and  beat 
The  ground  with  vipers,  till  it  sweat. 

Charm.  Blacker  go  in,  and  blacker  come  out: 
At  thy  going  down,  we  give  thee  a  shout ; 

Hoo ! 
At  thy  rising  again  thou  shalt  have  two  I      JS 
And  if  thou  dost  what  we  'd  have  thee  do. 
Thou  shalt  have  three,  thou  shalt  have  four, 

Hoo  !  har  !  har  !  hoo  ! 
A  cloud  of  pitch,  a  spur  and  a  switch, 
To  haste  him  away,  and  a  whirlwind  play. 
Before  and  after,  with  thunder  for  laughter 
And  storms  of  joy,  of  the  roaring  boy. 
His  head  of  a  drake,  his  tail  of  a  snake. 

{fH  loud  and  beautiful  music  is  heard,  and  the  Witches  vanish,) 


A  CATCH  OF  SATYRS. 

Silenus  bids  his  Satyrs  awaken  a  couple  of  Sylvans,  who  have  fallen 
asleep  while  they  should  have  kept  watch. 

Buz,  quoth  the  blue  fly. 

Hum,  quoth  the  bee ; 
Buz  and  hum  they  cry. 

And  so  do  we. 
In  his  ear,  in  his  nose. 

Thus,  do  you  see  ? 
H^  ate  the  dormouse ; 

Else  it  was  hi. 


BEN  JONSON.  149 


"  It  is  impossible  that  anything  could  better  express  than  this, 
either  the  wild  and  practical  joking  of  the  satyrs,  or  the  action 
of  the  thing  described,  or  the  quaintness  and  fitness  of  the  images, 
or  the  melody  and  even  the  harmony,  the  intercourse,  of  the  mu- 
sical words,  one  with  another.  None  but  a  boon  companion 
with  a  very  musical  ear  could  have  written  it.  It  was  not  for 
nothing  that  Ben  lived  in  the  time  of  the  fine  old  English  compos- 
ers. Bull  and  Ford,  or  partook  his  canary  with  his  "  lov'd  Alphon- 
so,"  as  he  calls  him,  the  Signor  Ferrabosco. — A  Jar  of  Honey 
from  Mount  Hybia,  in  Ainsworth's  Magazine,  No.  xxx.,  p.  86. 


150  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


BEAUMONT   AND  FLETCHER, 

BEAUMONT,  BORN  1586 — DIED  1615. 
FLETCHER,    "   1576—  "  1625. 


Poetry  of  the  highest  order  and  of  the  loveliest  character 
abounds  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  but  so  mixed  up  with  incon- 
sistent, and  too  often,  alas !  revolting  matter,  that,  apart  from 
passages  which  do  not  enter  into  the  plan  of  this  book,  I  had  no 
alternative  but  either  to  confine  the  extracts  to  the  small  number 
which  ensue,  or  to  bring  together  a  heap  of  the  smallest  quota- 
tions,— two  or  three  lines  at  a  time.  I  thought  to  have  got  a 
good  deal  more  out  of  the  Faithful  Shepherdess,  which  I  had  not 
read  for  many  years ;  but  on  renewing  my  acquaintance  with 
it,  I  found  that  the  same  unaccountable  fascination  with  the  evil 
times  which  had  spoilt  these  two  fine  poets  in  their  other  plays, 
had  followed  its  author,  beyond  what  I  had  supposed,  even  into 
the  regions  of  Arcadia. 

Mr.  Hazlitt,  who  loved  sometimes  to  relieve  his  mistrust  by  a 
fit  of  pastoral  worship,  pronounces  the  Faithful  Shepherdess  to 
be  "  a  perpetual  feast  of  nectar'd  sweets,  where  no  crude  surfeit 
reigns."  I  wish  I  could  think  so.  There  are  both  hot  and  cold 
dishes  in  it,  which  I  would  quit  at  any  time  to  go  and  dine  with 
the  honest  lovers  of  Allan  Ramsay,  whose  Gentle  Shepherd^ 
though  of  another  and  far  inferior  class  of  poetry,  I  take  upon 
the  whole  to  be  the  completest  pastoral  drama  that  ever  was 
written. 

It  is  a  pity  that  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  had  not  been  born 
earlier,  and  in  the  neighborhood  of  Shakspeare,  and  become  his 
playmates.  The  wholesome  company  of  the  juvenile  yeoman 
(like  a  greater  Sandford)  might  have  rectified  the  refined  spirits 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER  151 

of  the  young  gentlemen,  and  saved  their  Hippocrene  from  be- 
coming ditch-water.  Even  as  it  is,  they  seem  different  men 
when  writing  in  their  own  persons,  and  following  the  taste  of  the 
town.  Compare,  for  example,  Beaumont's  exquisite  verses  on 
Melancholy  (here  printed)  with  any  one  of  their  plays;  or 
Fletcher's  lines  entitled  An  Honest  Man^s  Fortune  with  the  play 
of  the  same  name,  to  which  it  is  appended.  The  difference  is 
so  great,  and  indeed  is  discernible  to  such  an  equal  degree  in 
the  poetry  which  startles  you  in  the  plays  themselves  (as  if  two 
different  souls  were  writing  one  passage),  that  it  appears  unac- 
countable, except  on  some  principle  anterior  to  their  town  life, 
and  to  education  itself.  Little  is  known  of  either  of  their  fami- 
lies, except  that  there  were  numerous  poets  in  both ;  but 
Fletcher's  father  was  that  Dean  of  Peterborough  (afterwards 
Bishop  of  London)  who  behaved  with  such  unfeeling  imperti- 
nence to  the  Queen  of  Scots  in  her  last  moments,  and  who  is 
said  (as  became  such  a  man)  to  have  died  of  chagrin,  because 
Elizabeth  was  angry  at  his  marrying  a  second  time.  Was 
poetry  such  a  "  drug  "  with  "  both  their  houses  "  that  the  friends 
lost  their  respect  for  it  ?  or  was  Fletcher's  mother  some  angel  of 
a  woman — some  sequestered  Miranda  of  the  day — with  whose 
spirit  the  "  earth  "  of  the  Dean  her  husband  but  ill  accorded  ? 

Every  devout  lover  of  poetry  must  have  experienced  the  wish 
of  Coleridge,  that  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  had  written  "poems 
instead  of  tragedies."  Imagine  as  voluminous  a  set  of  the  one 
as  they  have  given  us  of  the  other !  It  would  have  been  to 
sequestered  real  life  what  Spenser  was  to  the  land  of  Faery, — a 
retreat  beyond  all  groves  and  gardens,  a  region  of  medicinal 
sweets  of  thought  and  feeling.  Nor  would  plenty  of  fable  have 
been  wanting.  What  a  loss  !  And  this, — their  birthright  with 
posterity — these  extraordinary  men  sold  for  the  mess  of  the 
loathsome  pottage  of  the  praise  and  profligacy  of  the  court  of 
James  I. 

But  let  us  blush  to  find  fault  with  them,  even  for  such  a  de- 
scent from  their  height,  while  listening  to  their  diviner  moods. 


lf)2  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


MELANCHOLY. 

BY  BEAUMONT. 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights. 
As  short  as  are  the  nights 

Wherein  you  spend  your  folly ; 
There's  naught  in  this  life  sweet. 
Were  men  but  wise  to  see  't, 

But  only  Melancholy ; 
0  sweetest  Melancholy  ! 

Welcome,  folded  arms  and  fix^d  eyes ;         ^ 
A  sigh,  that  piercing,  mortifies  ; 
A  look  thafs  fasten' d  to  the  ground  ; 
A  tongue  chained  up  without  a  sound. 

Fountain  heads  and  pathless  groves. 

Places  which  pale  passion  loves  ,*' 

Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 

Are  warmly  hous'd  save  bats  and  owls ; 

A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan, 

These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon : 

Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  still  gloomy  valley  ; 

JVbthing  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  Melancholy.^ 

2 "  Lovely  Melancholy.''— Tradition  has  given  these  verses  to 
Beaumont,  though  they  appeared  for  the  first  time  in  a  play  of 
Fletcher's  after  the  death  of  his  friend.  In  all  probability 
Beaumont  had  partly  sketched  the  play,  and  left  the  verses  to 
be  inserted. 

I  cannot  help  thinking  that  a  couplet  has  been  lost  after  the 
words  "  bats  and  owls."  It  is  true  the  four  verses  ending 
with  those  words  might  be  made  to  belong  to  the  preceding 
four,  as  among  the  things  "  welcomed  ;"  but  the  junction  would 
be  forced,  and  the  modulation  injured.  They  may  remain,  too, 
where  they  are,  as  combining  to  suggest  the  "  sounds"  which  the 
melancholy  man  feeds  upon ;  "  fountain-heads"  being  audible, 
"  groves"  whispering,  and  the  "  moonlight  walks"  being  attend- 
ed by  the  hooting  "owl."     They  also  modulate  beautifully  in 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER.  153 

this  case.  Yet  these  intimations  themselves  appear  a  little  forc- 
ed ;  whereas,  supposing  a  couplet  to  be  supplied,  there  would 
be  a  distinct  reference  to  melancholy  sights,  as  well  as  sounds. 

The  conclusion  is  divine.  Indeed  the  whole  poem,  as  Hazlitt 
says,  is  "the  perfection  of  this  kind  of  writing."  Orpheus 
might  have  hung  it,  like  a  pearl,  in  the  ear  of  Proserpina.  It 
has  naturally  been  thought  to  have  suggested  the  Penseroso  to 
Milton,  and  is  more  than  worthy  to  have  done  so ;  for  fine  as 
that  is,  it  is  still  finer.  It  is  the  concentration  of  a  hundred 
melancholies.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  one  of  his  biographical 
works,  hardly  with  the  accustomed  gallantry  and  good-nature 
of  the  great  novelist,  contrasted  it  with  the  "  melo-dramatic"  ab- 
stractions of  Mrs.  Radclyffe  (then  living).  He  might  surely, 
with  more  justice,  have  opposed  it  to  the  diff'useness  and  con- 
ventional phraseology  of  "  novels  in  verse." 

1 «  Places  which  pale  passion  loves.'' — Beaumont,  while  writing 
this  verse,  perhaps  the  finest  in  the  poem,  probably  had  in  his 
memory  that  of  Marlowe,  in  his  description  of  Tamburlaine. 

Pale  of  complexion,  wrought  in  him  with  passion. 


A  SATYR  PRESENTS  A  BASKET  OP  FRUIT  TO  THE 
FAITHFUL  SHEPHERDESS. 


'tit 

BY  FLETCHER. 


m 


Here  be  grapes  whose  lusty  blood 

Is  the  learned  poet's  good ; 

Sweeter  yet  did  never  crown 

The  head  of  Bacchus ;  nuts  more  brown 

Than  the  squirrel's  teeth  that  crack  them ; 

Deign,  oh,  fairest  fair  !  to  take  them. 

For  these  black- eyed  Dry  ope 

Hath  oftentimes  commanded  me 

With  my  clasped  knee  to  climb : 

See  how  well  the  lusty  time 

Hath  decT^d  their  rising  cheeks  in  red. 

Such  as  on  your  lips  is  spread. 


154  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

Here  be  berries  for  a  queen, 
Some  be  red — some  be  green  ;3 
These  are  of  that  luscious  meat 
The  great  god  Pan  himself  doth  eat ; 
All  these,  and  what  the  woods  can  yield. 
The  hanging  mountain  or  the  field, 
I  freely  offer ;  and  ere  long 
Will  bring  you  more,  more  sweet  and  strong ; 
Till  when,  humbly  leave  I  take. 
Least  the  great  Pan  do  awake 
That  sleeping  lies  in  a  deep  glade. 
Under  a  broad  beeches  shade  .•* 
(    I  must  go,  I  must  run. 
Swifter  than  the  fiery  sun 

^  "  Some  be  red,  some  be  green.*' — This  verse  calls  to  mind  a  beau- 
tiful one  of  Chaucer,  in  his  description  of  a  grove  in  spring  : — 

In  which  were  oakes  great,  straight  as  a  line. 
Under  the  which  the  grass,  so  fresh  of  hue. 
Was  newly  sprung,  and  an  eight  foot  or  nine, 
Ev-e-ry  tree  well  from  his  fellow  grew. 
With  branches  broad,  laden  with  leaves  new. 
That  sprangen  out  against  the  sunny  sheen. 
Some  very  red,  and  some  a  glad  light  green. 

The  Flower  and  the  Leaf. 

Coleridge  was  fond  of  repeating  it. 

4 «  That  sleeping  lies,**  &c.— Pan  was  not  to  be  waked  too  soon 
with  impunity. 

Ot>  defitg,  &)  irotnaPf  to  ftsaajifipivov,  ov  Befits  afifiiv 
Tvpiadsv'  Tov  Tlava  deSoixanes'  v  yoip  aw'  aypa 
TaviKU  KSKjjLaKOis  ajjLnavsraf  evri  Se  niKpos 
Kat  ht  aei  Spijieia  ^o\a  rrori  pivi  KaOrtrai. 

Theocritus,  Idyll  i.,  v.  15. 

No,  shepherd,  no ;  we  must  not  pipe  at  noon : 
We  must  fear  Pan,  who  sleeps  after  the  chase. 
Ready  to  start  in  snappish  bitterness 
With  quivering  nostril. 

What  a  true  picture  of  the  half-goat  divinity ! 


w 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER.  t^6 


A  SPOT  FOR  LOVE  TALES. 

Here  be  all  new  delights,  cool  streams  and  wells ; 
Arbors  o'ergrown  with  woodbines ;  caves  and  dells ; 
Choose  where  thou  wilt,  whilst  I  sit  by  and  sing. 
Or  gather  rushes,  to  make  many  a  ring 
For  thy  long  fingers ;  tell  thee  tales  of  love  ; 
How  the  pale  Phoebe,  hunting  in  a  grove, 
First  saw  the  boy  Endymion,  from  whose  eyes 
She  took  eternal  fire  that  never  dies  ; 
How  she  conveyed  him  softly  in  a  sleep. 
His  temples  bound  with  poppy,  to  the  steep 
Head  of  old  Latmtts,  where  she  stoops  each  night. 
Gilding  the  mountain  with  her  brother's  light, 
To  kiss  her  sweetest. 


MORNING. 

See,  the  day  begins  to  break, 
And  the  light  shoots  like  a  streak 
Of  subtle  fire.     The  wind  blows  cold 
While  the  morning  doth  unfold. 

I  have  departed  from  my  plan  for  once,  to  introduce  this  very 
small  extract,  partly  for  the  sake  of  its  beauty,  partly  to  show 
the  student  that  great  poets  do  not  confine  their  pleasant  descrip- 
tions to  images  or  feelings  pleasing  in  the  commoner  sense  of  the 
word,  but  include  such  as,  while  seeming  to  contradict,  harmo- 
nize with  them,  upon  principles  of  truth,  and  of  a  genial  and 
strenuous  sympathy.  The  "  subtle  streak  of  fire"  is  obviously 
beautiful,  but  the  addition  of  the  cold  wind  is  a  truth  welcome  to 
those  only  who  have  strength  as  well  as  delicacy  of  apprehen- 
sion,-—or  rather,  that  healthy  delicacy  which  arises  from  the 
strength.  Sweet  and  wholesome,  and  to  be  welcomed,  is  the 
chill  breath  of  morning.  There  is  a  fine  epithet  for  this  kind  of 
dawn  in  the  elder  Marston's  Antonio  cmd  Melida : — 


# 


156  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

Is  not  yon  gleam  the  shuddering  morris  that  flakes 
With  silver  tincture  the  east  verge  of  heaven ' 


THE  POWER  OF  LOVE. 

Hear,  ye  ladies  that  despise 

What  the  mighty  Love  has  done ; 
Fear  examples  and  be  wise  : 

Fair  Calisto  was  a  nun  ; 
Leda,  sailing  on  the  stream 

To  deceive  the  hopes  of  man. 
Love  accounting  hut  a  dream 

Doted  on  a  silver  swan  ; 
Danae,  in  a  brazen  tower, 
Where  no  love  was,  loved  a  shower.^ 

»  Hear,  ye  ladies  that  are  coy, 
^  What  the  mighty  Love  can  do, 

Fear  the  fierceness  of  the  boy : 

The  chaste  moon  he  makes  to  woo ; 
Vesta,  kindling  holy  fires. 

Circled  round  about  with  spies, 
Never  dreaming  loose  desires. 

Doting  at  the  altar  dies ; 
Hion  in  a  short  hour,  higher 
He  can  build,  and  once  more  fire. 

»  "  Where  no  love  was.'' — See    how  extremes  meet,   and   pas 
sion  writes  as  conceit  does,  in  these  repetitions  of  a  word : — 

Where  no  love  was,  lov'd  a  shower. 

So,  still  more  emphatically,  in  the  ifistance  afterwards : — 

Fear  the  fierceness  of  the  boy — 

than  which  nothing  can  be  finer.     Wonder  and  earnestness  con- 
spire to  stamp  the  iteration  of  the  sound. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER.  157 


INVOCATION  TO  SLEEP. 

Sung  to  Music :  the  Emperor  Valeittinian  sitting  by^  sickt  in  a 

chair. 

Care-charming  Sleep,  thou  easer  of  all  woes, — 
Brother  to  Death,  sweetly  thyself  dispose 
On  this  afflicted  prince :  fall  like  a  cloud 
In  gentle  showers  ;  give  nothing  that  is  loud 
Or  painful  to  his  slumbers ;— easy,  sweet,^ 
And  as  a  purling  stream,  thou  son  of  night. 
Pass  by  his  troubled  senses  : — sing  his  pain. 
Like  hollow  murmuring  wind,  or  silver  rain  : 
Into  this  prince  gently,  oh,  gently  slide. 
And  kiss  him  into  slumbers  like  a  bride  ! 

6 "  Easy;  sweet."' — In  rhymes  like  night  and  sweety  the  fine  ears 
of  our  ancestors  discerned  a  harmony  to  which  we  have  been 
unaccustomed.  They  perceived  the  double  e,  which  is  in  the 
vowel  i, — night  nah-eet.  There  is  an  instance  in  a  passage  in 
the  Midsummer  Night^s  Dream,  extracted  at  page  126,  where 
the  word  hees,  as  well  as  mulberries,  and  dewberries,  is  made  to  ^' 
rhyme  with  eyes,  arise,  <Sz;c.  Indeed,  in  such  words  as  mulber- 
ries the  practice  is  still  retained,  and  e  and  i  considered  corres- 
ponding sounds  in  the  fainter  terminations  of  polysyllables  ; — 
free,  company — -Jly,  company. 

Was  ever  the  last  line  of  this  invocation  surpassed  ?     But  it 
is  all  in  the  finest  tone  of  mingled  softness  and  earnestness. 
The  verses  are  probably  Fletcher's.     He  has  repeated  a  pas-    % 
sage  of  it  in  his  poem  entitled  An  Honest  Man's  Fortune. 

Oh,  man !  thou  image  of  thy  Maker's  good. 

What  canst  thou  fear,  when  breath'd  into  thy  blood 

His  Spirit  is  that  built  thee  ?    What  dull  sense 

Makes  thee  suspect,  in  need,  that  Providence 

Who  made  the  morning,  and  who  plac'd  the  light  '    m 

Guide  to  thy  labors ;  who  call'd  up  the  night,  *' 

And  bid  her  fall  upon  thee  like  sweet  showers 

In  hollow  murmurs  to  lock  up  thy  powers ! 

O  si.sic  omnia  / 


158  MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER. 


MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER, 


When  about  to  speak  of  these  and  other  extraordinary  men  of 
the  days  of  Shakspeare,  the  Marstons,  Rowleys,  Massingers, 
Dray  tons,  &;c.,  including  those  noticed  already,  I  wasted  a 
good  deal  of  time  in  trying  to  find  out  how  it  was  that,  possess- 
ing, as  most  of  them  did,  such  a  pure  vein  of  poetry,  and  some- 
times saying  as  fine  things  as  himself,  they  wrote  so  much  that 
is  not  worth  reading,  sometimes  not  fit  to  be  read.  I  might  have 
considered  that,  either  from  self-love,  or  necessity,  or  both,  too 
much  writing  is  the  fault  of  all  ages  and  of  every  author. 
Even  Homer,  says  Horace,  sometimes  nods.  How  many  odes 
might  not  Horace  himself  have  spared  us !  How  many  of  his 
latter  books,  Virgil !  What  theology,  Dante  and  Milton !  What 
romances,  Cervantes !  What  Comedies,  Ariosto !  What  trage- 
dies, Dryden  !  What  heaps  of  words,  Chaucer  and  Spenser ! 
What  Iliads,  Pope  ! 

Shakspeare's  contemporaries,  however,  appear  to  have  been  a 
singularly  careless  race  of  men,  compared  with  himself.  Could 
they  have  been  rendered  so  by  that  very  superiority  of  birth  and 
education  which  threw  them  upon  the  town,  in  the  first  instance, 
with  greater  confidence,  his  humbler  prospects  rendering  him 
more  cautious  ?  Or  did  their  excess  of  wit  and  fancy  require 
a  counter-perfection  of  judgment,  such  as  he  only  possessed  ? 
Chapman  and  Drayton,  though  their  pens  were  among  the  pro- 
fusest  and  most  unequal,  seem  to  have  been  prudent  men  in 
conduct ;  so  in  all  probability  were  Ford  and  Webster ;  but 
none  of  these  had  the  animal  spirits  of  the  others.  Shak- 
speare had  aniraHil  spirits,  wit,  fancy,  judgment,  prudence  in 
money  matters,  understanding  like  Bacon,  feeling  like  Chaucer, 
mirth  like  Rabelais^  dignity  like  Milton !  What  a  man  !  Has 
anybody  discovered  the  reason  why  he  never  noticed  a  living 


MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.  159 

contemporary,  and  but  one  who  was  dead  ?  and  this  too  in  an 
age  of  great  men,  and  when  they  were  in  the  habit  of  acknow 
ledging  the  pretensions  of  one  another.  It  could  not  have  been 
jealousy,  or  formality,  or  inability  to  perceive  merits  which  his 
own  included ;  and  one  can  almost  as  little  believe  it  possible 
to  have  been  owing  to  a  fear  of  disconcerting  his  aristocratic 
friends,  for  they  too  were  among  the  eulogizers :  neither  can  it 
be  attributed  to  his  having  so  mooted  all  points,  as  to  end  in 
caring  for  none  ;  for  in  so  great  aiid  wise  a  nature,  good  nature 
must  surely  survive  everything,  both  as  a  pleasure  and  a  duty. 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  think  that  his  theatrical  manager- 
ship was  the  cause.  It  naturally  produced  a  dislike  of  pro- 
nouncing judgments  and  incurring  responsibilities.  And  yet 
he  was  not  always  a  manager  ;  nor  were  all  his  literary  friends 
playwrights.  I  think  it  probable,  from  the  style,  that  he  wrote 
the  sonnet  in  which  Spenser  is  eulogized  : — 

If  music  and  sweet  poetry  agree,  &c. 

but  this  is  doubtful ;  and  Spenser  was  not  one  of  his  dramatic 
fellows.  Did  he  see  too  many  faults  in  them  all  to  praise 
them ! !  Certainly  the  one  great  difference  between  him  and 
them,  next  to  superiority  of  genius,  is  the  prevailing  relevancy 
of  all  he  wrote  ;  its  freedom,  however  superabundant,  from  in- 
consistency and  caprice.  But  could  he  find  nothing  to  praise  ? 
Nothing  in  the  whole  contemporary  drama  ?  Nothing  in  all 
the  effusions  of  his  friends  and  brother  clubbists  of  the  Mermaid 
and  the  Triple  Tun  ? 

I  take  Webster  and  Decker  to  have  been  the  two  greatest  of 
the  Shakspeare  men,  for  unstudied  genius,  next  after  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher ;  and  in  some  respects  they  surpassed  them. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  have  no  such  terror  as  Webster,  nor 
any  such  piece  of  hearty,  good,  affecting  human  clay,  as 
Decker's  "  Old  Signior  Orlando  Friscobaldo."  Is  there  any 
such  man  even  in  Shakspeare  ? — any  such  exaltation  of  that 
most  delightful  of  all  things,  honhomie  ?  Webster  sometimes 
overdoes  his  terror  ;  nay  often.  He  not  only  riots,  he  debauches 
in  it;  and  Decker,  full  of  heart  and  delicacy  as  he  is,  and 
qualified  to  teach  refinement  to  the  refined,  condescends  to  an 


160  MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER. 

astounding  coarseness.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  good  .company 
saved  them  from  that,  in  words.  In  spirit  they  are  full  of  it. 
But  Decker  never  mixes  up  (at  least  not  as  far  as  I  can  remem- 
ber) any  such  revolting  and  impossible  contradictions  in  the 
same  character  as  they  do.  Neither  does  he  bring  a  doubt  on 
his  virtue  by  exaggerating  them.  He  believes  heartily  in  what 
he  does  believe,  and  you  love  him  in  consequence.  It  was  he 
that  wrote  that  character,  the  piety  of  which  has  been  pro- 
nounced equal  to  its  boldness  : — 

The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him  was  a  sufferer ; 
A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit; 
The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breath'd. 

His  universal  sympathy  enabled  him  to  strike  out  that  audacious 
and  happy  simile,  "  untameable  as  jlies,^^  which  Homer  would 
have  admired,  though  it  is  fit  to  make  poetasters  shudder.  The 
poetaster,  had  Decker  offered  to  make  him  a  present  of  it,  would 
have  been  afraid  of  being  taken  for  a  fly  himself.  Images  are 
either  grand  in  themselves,  or  for  the  thought  and  feeling  that 
accompany  them.  This  has  all  the  greatness  of  Nature's 
*'  equal  eye."  You  may  see  how  truly  Decker  felt  it  to  be  of 
this  kind,  by  the  company  in  which  he  has  placed  it ;  and  there 
is  a  consummation  of  propriety  in  its  wildness,  for  he  is  speaking 
of  lunatics : — 

There  are  of  madmen,  as  there  are  of  tame. 

All  humor'd  not  alike.     We  have  here  some 

So  apish  and  fantastic,  will  play  with  a  feather ; 

And  though  'twould  grieve  a  soul  to  see  God's  image 

So  blemish'd  and  defaced,  yet  do  they  act 

Such  antic  and  such  pretty  lunacies. 

That,  spite  of  sorrow,  they  will  make  you  smile. 

Others  again  we  have  like  hungry  lionSy 

Fierce  as  wild  bullSy  untameable  as  flies. 

Middleton  partakes  of  the  poetry  and  sweetness  of  Decker, 
but  not  to  the  same  height ;  and  he  talks  more  at  random.  You 
hardly  know  what  to  make  of  the  dialogue  or  stories  of  some  of 
i»is  plays.     But  he  has  more  fancy  ;  and  there  is  one  characte 


MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.  161 

of  his  (De  Flores  in  the  "  Changeling*^)  which,  for  effect  at  once 
tragical,  probable,  and  poetical,  surpasses  anything  I  know  of 
in  the  drama  of  domestic  life.  Middleton  has  the  honor  of 
having  furnished  part  of  the  witch  poetry  to  Macbeth,  and  of 
being  conjoined  with  it  also  in  the  powerful  and  beautiful  music 
of  Locke. 

From  Massinger,  Ford,  and  the  others  (as  far  as  I  have  met 
with  them,  and  apart  from  the  connexion  of  Massinger's  name 
with  Decker),  I  could  find  nothing  to  extract  of  a  nature  to  suit 
this  particular  volume,  and  of  equal  height  with  its  contents. 
It  is  proper  to  state,  however,  that  I  have  only  glanced  through 
their  works :  for  though  no  easily  daunted  reader,  I  never  read 
an  entire  play  either  of  Ford  or  Massinger.  They  repel  me 
with  the  conventional  tendencies  of  their  style,  and  their  unnatu- 
ral plots  and  characters.  Ford,  however,  is  elegant  and 
thoughtful ;  and  Massinger  has  passion,  though  (as  far  as  I 
know)  not  in  a  generous  shape.  With  these  two  writers  began 
that  prosaical  part  of  the  corruption  of  dramatic  style  (merging 
passionate  language  into  conventional)  which  came  to  its  head 
in  Shirley. 

Donusa.  What  magic  hath  transform'' d  me  from  myself  7 
Where  is  my  virgin  pride  ?  how  have  I  lost 
My  boasted  freedom  /  what  new  fire  burns  up 
My  scorch'd  entrails !  !  what  unknown  desires 
Invade^  and  take  possession  of  my  soul  ? 

Mafisinger's  RtHegado. 

Hialas.  To  this  union 

The  good  of  both  the  Church  and  Commonwealth 
Invite  you. 

Durham.  To  this  unity,  a  mystery 
Of  providence  points  out  a  greater  blessing 
For  both  these  nations,  than  our  human  wisdom 
Can  search  into.     King  Henry  hath  a  daughter. 
The  Princess  Margaret.     /  need  not  urge,  &c. 

Ford's  Perkin  Warbeek. 

B-oth  tnese  passages  are  the  first  I  came  to,  on  dipping  into 
their  works.  One  might  fancy  one's  self  reading  Cato  or  the 
Grecian  Daughter,  instead  of  men  wl^  had  breathed  the  air  of 
the  days  of  Shakspeare. 

12 


162  MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER. 

Massinger  was  joint  author  with  Decker,  of  the  play  from 
which  the  scene  of  the  lady  and  the  angel  is  taken ;  but  nobody 
who  knows  the  style  of  the  two  men  can  doubt  for  a  moment  to 
which  it  belongs.  I  have,  therefore,  without  hesitation  assigned 
it  according  to  the  opinion  expressed  by  Mr.  Lamb. 


FLIGHT  OP  WITCHES. 

Scene,  a  Field.    Enter  Hecate,  Stadlin,  Hoppo,  and  other  Witehei. 
Firestone  in  the  background. 

Hec.  The  moon's  a  gallant ;  see  how  brisk  she  rides ! 

Stad.  Here 's  a  rich  evening,  Hecate. 

Hec.  Ay,  is 't  not,  wenches, 

To  take  a  journey  of  five  thousand  miles  ^ 

Hop.  0  't  will  be  precious  ! 

Heard  you  the  owl  yet  ? 

Stad.  Briefly  in  the  copse, 

As  we  came  through  now. 

Hec.  'T  is  high  time  for  us  then 

Stad.  There  was  a  hat  hung  at  my  lips  three  times. 
As  we  came  through  the  woods,  and  drank  her  fill : 
Old  Puckle  saw  her. 

Hec.  You  are  fortunate  still ; 

T%e  very  screech-owl  lights  upon  your  shoulder. 
And  woos  you  like  a  pigeon.  Are  you  furnished  ? 
Have  you  your  ointments  ? 

Stad..  All. 

Hec.  Prepare  to  flight  then ; 

I'll  overtake  you  swiftly. 

Stad.  Hie  thee,  Hecate ; 

We  shall  be  up  betimes. 

Hec.  I'll  reach  you  quickly. 

[Exeunt  all  the  Witches  except  Hecate. 

jRw*c.  They  are  all  going  a  birding  to-night :  they  talk  of  fowls  i'  th'  air 
that  fly  by  day ;  I  am  sure  they'll  be  a  company  of  foul  sluts  there  to-night: 
if  we  have  not  mortality  after  't,  I  '11  be  hanged,  for  they  are  able  to  putrefy 
it,  to  infect  a  whole  region.     She  spies  me  now. 

Hee.  What,  Firestone,  our  sweet  son  ? 

Fire  A  little  sweeter  than  some  of  you,  or  a  dunghill  were  too  good  for 
me.  •  \A.side» 

Hee  How  much  hast  here  ? 


MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.  163 

Fire.  Nineteen,  and  all  brave  plump  ones,  besides 

•ix  lizards  and  three  serpentime  eggs. 

Hec.  Dear  and  sweet  boy  !  what  herbs  hast  thou  ? 

Fire.  I  have  some  marmartin  and  mandragon. 

Hec.  Marmaritin  and  mandragora,  thou  wouldst  say. 

Fire,  Here's  panax  too — I  thank  thee — my  pan  aches  Pm  sure,  with 
kneeling  down  to  cut  'em. 

Hec.  And  selago, 

Hedge-hysop  too ;  how  near  he  goes  my  cuttings  ! 
Were  they  all  cropt  by  moonlight  ? 

Fire.  Every  blade  of  'em, 

Or  Pm  a  moon-calf,  mother. 

Hec.  Hie  thee  home  with  »em : 

Look  well  to  the  house  to-night ;  I'm  for  aloft. 

Fire.  Aloft,  quoth  you  ?  I  would  you  would  break  your  neck  once,  that 
J  might  have  all  quickly  /  [Aside.} — Hark,  hark,  mother  !  they  are  above 
the  steeple  already,  joying  over  your  head  with  a  noise  of  mustctans. 

Hec.  They  're  they  indeed.     Help,  help  me ;  I'm  too  late  else. 

SONG  ABOVE. 

Come  away,  come  away, 
Hecate,  Hecate,  come  away. 
Hec.  I  come,  I  come,  I  come,  I  come, 
With  all  the  speed  I  may. 
Where's  Stadlin  ? 
{Voice  above.}  Here. 

Hec.   Where's  Puckle  ? 
[Voice  above.}  Here. 

And  Hoppo  too,  and  Hellwain  too  ; 
We  lack  but  you,  we  lack  but  you ; 
Come  away,  make  up  the  count. 
Hed.  I  will  but  'noint  and  then  I  mount. 

[A  spirit  like  a  cat  descends 
[Voice  aJbove.}  There's  one  comes  down  to  fetch  his  dues, 
A  kiss,  a  coll,  a  sip  of  blood  ; 
And  why  thou  stay'st  so  long,  I  muse, 
Since  the  air  's  so  sweet  and  good  ? 
Hec.   0,  art  thou  come  ?  what  news,  what  news  ? 
Spirit.   All  goes  still  to  our  delight. 

Either  come,  or  else  refuse. 
Hec.  Now  I'm  furnished  for  the  flight. 
JPire.  Hark,  hark,  the  cat  rings  a  brave  treble  in  her  own  language  I 
[Hec.  going  up.}  JVow  I  go,  now  I  fly, 

Malkin  my  sweet  spirit  and  I. 
O  what  a  dainty  pleasure  't  is 


164  MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER. 

To  ride  in  the  air 
When  the  moon  shines  fair  ^ 
And  sing  and  dance,  and  toy  and  kiss  ! 
Over  woods,  high  rocks  and  mountains. 
Over  seas,  our  mistress'  fountains ; 
Over  steeples,  towers,  and  turrets. 
We  fly  by  night,  'mongst  troops  of  spirits : 
No  ring  of  bells  to  our  ears  sounds  ; 
No  howls  of  wolves,  no  yelps  of  hounds ; 
No,  not  the  noise  of  water's  breach, 
Or  cannon's  throat  our  height  can  reach. 
[Voice  above."]  No  ring  of  bells,  &c. 

Fire.  Well,  mother,  I  thank  your  kindness :  you  must  be  gambolling  i* 
th'  air,  and  leave  me  to  walk  here,  like  a  fool  and  a  mortal. 

M1DDI.ETON. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  LADY  AND  THE  ANGEL. 
An  Angel,  in  the  guise  of  a  Page,  attends  on  Dorothea. 

Dor.  My  book  and  taper 

Ang.  Here,  most  holy  mistress. 

Dor,  Thy  voice  sends  forth  such  music,  that  I  never 
Was  ravish'd  with  a  more  celestial  sound. 
Were  every  servant  in  the  world  like  thee. 
So  full  of  goodness,  angels  would  come  down 
To  dwell  with  us  :  thy  name  is  Angelo, 
And  like  that  name  thou  art.     Get  thee  to  rest ; 
Thy  youth  with  too  much  watching  is  opprest 

Ang.  No,  my  dear  lady ;  I  could  weary  stars, 
And  force  the  wakeful  moon  to  lose  her  eyes, 
By  my  late  watching,  but  to  wait  on  you. 
When  at  your  prayers  you  kneel  before  the  altar, 
Methinks  I'm  singing  with  some  quire  in  heaven. 
So  blest  I  hold  me  in  your  company : 
Therefore,  my  most  lov'd  mistress,  do  not  bid 
Your  boy,  so  serviceable,  to  get  hence ; 
For  then  you  break  his  heart. 

Dor.  Be  nigh  me  still  then. 

In  golden  letters  down  I'll  set  that  day 
Which  gave  thee  to  me.     Little  did  I  hope 
To  meet  such  worlds  of  comfort  in  thyself. 


MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.  165 

This  little,  pretty  body,  when  I,  coming 
Forth  of  the  temple,  heard  my  beggar-boy. 
My  sweet-faced,  godly  beggar-boy,  crave  an  alms. 
Which  with  glad  hand  I  gave,  with  lucky  hand ! 
And  when  I  took  thee  home,  my  most  chaste  bosom 
Methought  was  fiU'd  with  no  hot  wanton  fire. 
But  with  a  holy  flame,  mounting  since  higher. 
On  wings  of  cherubims,  than  it  did  before. 

Ang.  Proud  am  I,  that  my  lady's  modest  eye 
So  likes  so  poor  a  servant. 

Dor.  I  have  ofFer'd 

Handfuls  of  gold  but  to  behold  thy  parents. 
I  would  leave  kingdoms,  were  I  queen  of  some 
To  dwell  with  thy  good  father ;  for,  the  son 
Bewitching  me  so  deeply  with  his  presence. 
He  that  got  him  must  do  it  ten  times  more. 
I  pray  thee,  my  sweet  boy,  show  me  thy  parents ; 
Be  not  asham'd. 

^ng.  I  am  not:  I  did  never 

Know  who  my  mother  was  ;  but  by  yon  palace, 
Fill'd  with  bright  heavenly  courts,  I  dare  assure  you, 
And  pawn  these  eyes  upon  it,  and  this  hand. 
My  father  is  in  heaven ;  and,  pretty  mistress. 
If  your  illustrious  hour-glass  spend  his  sand. 
No  worse  than  yet  it  does,  upon  my  life^ 
You  and  I  both  shall  meet  my  father  there. 
And  he  shall  bid  you  welcome ! 

Dor.  '  0  blessed  day ! 

We  all  long  to  be  there,  but  lose  the  way. 

[Exeunt 

Dorothea  is  executed;  and  the  Angel  visits  Theophilus,  the  Judge 
that  condemned  her. 

Theoph.  {alone)  This  Christian  slut  was  well, 

A  pretty  one ;  but  let  such  horror  follow 
The  next  I  feed  with  torments,  that  when  Rome 
Shall  hear  it,  her  foundation  at  the  sound 
May  feel  an  eai-thquake.     How  now  ?     {Mv^ic.) 

^ng.  Are  you  amazed,  sir  ? 

So  great  a  Roman  spirit,  and  doth  it  tremble  ? 

Theoph.  How  cam'st  thou  in  ?  to  whom  thy  busin6ffl  ? 

Ang.  To  you. 
I  had  a  mistress,  late  sent  hence  by  you 
l^on  a  bloody  errand  ;  you  entreated,  , 

Y^at,  when  she  came  into  that  blessed  garden 


166  MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER. 

Whither  she  knew  she  went,  and  where,  now  happy. 
She  feeds  upon  all  joy ^  she  would  send  to  you 
Some  of  that  garden  fruit  and  flowers;  which  here. 
To  have  her  promise  sav'd,  are  brought  by  me. 

Theoph.  Cannot  I  see  this  garden  ? 

Ang.  "  Yes,  if  the  master 

Will  give  you  entrance.  (He  vanishes.) 

Theoph.  *Tis  a  tempting  fruit. 

And  the  most  bright-cheek'd  child  I  ever  view'd ; 
Sweet-smelling,  goodly  fruit.     What  flowers  are  these  ? 
In  Dioclesian's  gardens,  the  most  beauteous 
Compar'd  with  these  are  weeds :  is  it  not  February, 
The  second  day  she  died  ?  frost,  ice,  and  snow. 
Hang  on  the  beard  of  winter :  where's  the  sun 
That  gilds  this  summer  ?  pretty,  sweet  boy,  say. 
In  what  country  shall  a  man  find  this  garden  ? — 
My  delicate  boy, — ^gone !  vanish'd !  within  there, 
Julianus !    Geta ! 

Both.  My  lord. 

Theoph.  Are  my  gates  shut  ? 

Geta.  And  guarded. 

Theoph.  Saw  you  not 

A  boy?  I"- 

Jul.  Where? 

Theoph.  Here  he  enter'd,  a  young  lad ; 

A  thousand  blessings  dandd  upon  his  eyes  ; 
A  smooth-fac^d  glorious  thing y  that  brought  this  basket. 

Geta.  No,  sir. 

Theoph.  Away !  but  be  in  -each,  if  my  voice  calls  you. 

Decker. 


LADIES  DANCING. 


A  fine  sweet  earthquake,  gently  mov'd 
By  the  soft  wind  of  whispering  silks. 

The  same. 


MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.  167 


APRIL  AND  WOMEN'S  TEARS. 

Trust  not  a  woman  when  she  cries, 
For  she'll  pump  water  from  her  eyes 
With  a  wet  finger,  and  in  faster  showers 
Than  April  when  he  rains  down  flowers. 

The  same. 


DEATH. 

There's  a  lean  fellow  beats  all  conquerors. 


The  same. 


PATIENCE. 

Duke.  What  comfort  do  you  find  in  being  so  calm  ? 

Candida.   That  which  green  wounds  receive  from  sovereign  balm. 
Patience,  my  lord !  why,  'tis  the  soul  of  peace  ; 
Of  all  the  virtues  't  is  nearest  kin  to  heaven  ; 
It  makes  men  look  like  gods.     The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him  was  a  sufferer, 
A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit. 
The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breathed. 
The  stock  of  patience  then  cannot  be  poor ; 
All  it  desires,  it  has ;  what  award  more  ? 
It  is  the  greatest  enemy  to  law 
That  can  be,  for  it  doth  embrace  all  wrongs, 
And  so  chains  up  lawyer's  and  women's  tongues : 
'  T  is  the  perpetual  prisoner's  liberty. 
His  walks  and  orchards :  't  is  the  bond-slave's  freedom, 
And  makes  him  seem  proud  of  his  iron  chain. 
As  though  he  wore  it  more  for  state  than  pain : 
It  is  the  beggar's  music,  and  thus  sings, — 


168  MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER. 

Although  their  bodies  beg,  their  souls  are  kings. 
0,  my  dread  liege !  it  is  the  sap  of  bliss. 
Bears  us  aloft,  makes  men  and  angels  kisa  ; 
And  last  of  all,  to  end  a  household  strife, 
Jt  is  the  honey  'gainst  a  waspish  unfe. 

The  same. 

I  had  a  doubt  whether  to  put  this  exquisite  passage  into  the 
present  volume,  or  to  reserve  it  for  one  of  Contemplative  poetry ; 
but  the  imagination,  which  few  will  not  think  predominant  in  it, 
together  with  a  great  admiration  of  the  sentiments,  of  the 
thoughtful,  good-natured  alternation  of  jest  and  earnest,  and  of 
the  sweetness  of  the  versification,  increased  by  a  certain  wild 
mixture  of  rhyme  and  blank  verse,  determined  me  to  indulge 
the  impulse.  Perhaps  Decker,  who  had  experienced  the  worst 
troubles  of  poverty,  not  excepting  loss  of  liberty,  drew  his  pa- 
tient man  from  himself,  half-jesting  over  the  portrait,  in  order  to 
reconcile  his  praises  of  the  virtue  in  the  abstract,  with  a  modest 
sense  of  it  in  his  own  person.  To  the  strain  in  it  of  a  "  higher 
mood,"  I  cannot  but  append  what  Mr.  Hazlitt  has  said  in  his 
Lectures  on  the  Literature  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth  (Temple- 
man's  edition,  p.  21).  "There  have  been  persons  who,  being 
sceptics  as  to  the  divine  mission  of  Christ,  have  taken  an  unac- 
countable prejudice  to  his  doctrines,  and  have  been  disposed  to 
deny  the  merit  of  his  character  ;  but  this  was  not  the  feeling  of 
the  great  men  in  the  age  of  Elizabeth  (whatever  might  be  their 
belief),  one  of  whom  says  of  him,  with  a  boldness  equal  to  its 
piety,  '  The  best  of  men,'  "  &c.  (Here  the  lecturer  quotes  the 
verses  alluded  to  and  adds),  "  This  was  honest  old  Decker ;  and 
the  lines  ought  to  embalm  his  memory  to  every  one  who  has  a 
sense  either  of  religion,  or  philosophy,  or  humanity,  or  true 
genius." 


A  WICKED  DREAM. 

Vittoria  Corombona.  To  pass  away  the  time  I  '11  tell  your  grace 
A  dream  I  had  last  night. 


0: 
MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.  189 

Brachiano.  Most  wishedly. 

Vit.  Cor.  A  foolish  idle  dream, 
Methought  I  walk'd,  aboal  the  mid  of  night. 
Into  a  church-yard,  where  a  goodly  yew-tree 
Spread  her  large  root  in  ground.     Under  that  yew. 
As  I  sat  sadly  lej^ning  on  a  grave 
Checquer'd  with  cross  sticks,  there  came  stealing  lit 
Your  duchess  and  my  husband ;  one  of  them 
A  pick-axe  bore,  th'  other  a  rusty  spade, 
And  in  rough  terms  they  'gan  to  challenge  me 
About  this  yew. 

Brack.  That  tree  ? 

Vit.  Cor.  This  harmless  yew. 

They  told  me  my  intent  was  to  root  up 
That  well-known  yew,  and  plant  i'  th'  stead  of  it 
A  wither'd  black-thorn :  and  for  that  they  vow'd 
To  bury  me  alive.     My  husband  straight 
With  pick-axe  'gan  to  dig ;  and  your  fell  duchess 
With  shovel,  like  a  fury,  voided  out  « 

The  earth,  and  scattered  hones :  Londy  how^  methought, 
I  trembled,  and  yet  for  all  this  terror 
I  could  not  pray, 

Flamineo.  {aside.)  No ;  the  devil  was  in  your  dream. 

Vit.  Cor.  When  to  my  rescue  there  arose,  methought 
A  whirlwind,  which  let  fall  a  massy  arm. 
From  that  strong  plant ; 

And  both  were  struck  dead  by  that  sacred  yew. 
In  that  base  shallow  grave  which  was  their  due. 

Flamineo.  {aside.)  Excellent  devil '  she  hath  taught  him  in  a  dream 
To  make  away  his  duchess  and  her  htisband 

Webster. 


NATURAL  DEATH. 

0,  thou  soft  natural  death,  that  art  joint  twin 
To  sweetest  slumber !  no  rough-bearded  comet 
Stares  on  thy  mild  departure  ;  the  dull  owl 
Beats  not  against  thy  casement ;  the  hoarse  wolf 
Scents  not  thy  carrion  :  pity  winds  thy  corse. 
Whilst  horror  waits  on  princes. 

The  same 


no  MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER. 


FUNERAL  DIRGE.  0 

{Sung  by  a  Mother  over  her  Son.) 

Call  for  the  robin  red-breast  and  the  wren, 

Since  o'er  shady  groves  they  hover^ 

And  with  leaves  of  flowers  do  cover 
The  friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men.  ' 

Call  unto  his  funeral  dole 

The  ant,  the  field  mouse,  and  the  moley 
To  raise  him  hillocks  that  shall  keep  him  warm  ; 
And  when  gay  tombs  are  robb'd,  sustain  no  harm  : 
But  keep  the  wolf  far  thence,  that 's  foe  to  men. 
For  with  his  nails  he  *11  dig  them  up  again. 
♦  The  same. 

"I  never  saw,"  says  Lamb,  "  anything  like  this  dirge,  except 
the  ditty  which  reminds  Ferdinand  of  his  drowned  father  in  the 
Tempest.  That  is  of  the  water,  watery ;  so  this  is  of  the  earth, 
earthy.  Both  have  that  intenseness  of  feeling  which  seems  to 
resolve  itself  into  the  elements  which  it  contemplates."— -JDra- 
matic  SjpecimenSj  Moxon's  edition,  vol.  !.,  p.  251. 


DISSIMULATION. 

Be  not  cunning; 
For  those  whose  faces  do  belie  their  hearts 
Are  witches  ere  they  arrive  at  twenty  years. 
And  give  the  devil  suck. 

The  sauce. 


MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.  171 


BEAUTEOUS  MORAL  EXAMPLE. 

Her  I  hold 
My  honorable  pattern ;  one  whose  mind 
Appears  more  like  a  ceremonious  chapel 
Full  of  tweet  muaicy  than  a  thronging  presence. 

The  same. 


UNLOVELINESS  OF  FROWNING. 

Cupid  sets  a  crown 

Upon  those  lovely  tresses 
0,  spoil  not  with  a  frown. 

What  he  so  sweetly  dresses ! 

The  same. 


na  MILTON. 


MILTON, 

BORN,  1608, DIED,  1674. 


It  is  difficult  to  know  what  to  do  with  some  of  the  finest  passages 
in  Milton's  great  poem.  To  treat  the  objectionable  points  of 
their  story  as  mythological,  might  be  thought  irreverent  to  opi- 
nion ;  and  lo  look  upon  them  in  the  light  in  which  he  at  first 
wished  us  to  regard  them  (for  he  is  understood  to  have  changed 
his  own  opinions  of  it),  involves  so  much  irreverence  towards  the 
greatest  of  beings,  that  it  is  painful  to  seem  to  give  them  counte- 
nance. The  difficulty  is  increased  in  a  volume  of  the  present 
kind,  which  is  intended  to  give  the  reader  no  perplexily,  except 
to  know  what  to  admire  most.  I  have  therefore  thought  it  best 
to  confine  the  extracts  from  Paradise  Lost  to  unconnected  pas- 
sages ;  and  the  entire  ones  to  those  poems  which  he  wrote  when 
a  happy  youth,  undegenerated  into  superstition.  The  former 
will  still  include  his  noblest  flights  of  imagination :  the  rest  are 
ever  fresh,  true,  and  delightful. 

Milton  was  a  very  great  poet,  second  only  (if  second)  to  the 
very  greatest,  such  as  Dante  and  Shakspeare ;  and,  like  all 
great  poets,  equal  to  them  in  particular  instances.  He  had  no 
pretensions  to  Shakspeare' s  universality ;  his  wit  is  dreary ; 
and  (in  general)  he  had  not  the  faith  in  things  that  Homer  and 
Dante  had,  apart  from  the  intervention  of  words.  He  could  not 
let  them  speak  for  themselves  without  helping  them  with  his 
learning.  In  all  he  did,  after  a  certain  period  of  youth  (not  to 
speak  it  irreverently),  something  of  the  schoolmaster  is  visible  ; 
and  a  gloomy  religious  creed  removes  him  still  farther  from  the 
universal  gratitude  and  delight  of  mankind.  He  is  understood, 
however,  as  I  have  just^  intimated,  to  have  given  this  up  befcre 
he  died.    He  had  then  run  the  circle  of  his  knowledge,  and 


MILTON.  173 

probablyvkpme  round  to  the  wiser,  more  cheerful,  and  more  po- 
etical  beliefs  of  his  childhood. 

In  this  respect,  Allegro  and  Penseroso  are  the  happiest  of  his 
productions ;  and  in  none  is  the  poetical  habit  of  mind  more 
abundantly  visible.  They  ought  to  precede  the  Lycidas  (not 
unhurt  with  theology)  in  the  modern  editions  of  his  works,  as 
they  did  in  the  collection  of  minor  poems  made  by  himself. 
Paradise  Lost  is  a  study  for  imagination  and  elaborate  musical 
structure.  Take  almost  any  passage,  and  a  lecture  might  be 
read  from  it  on  contrasts  and  pauses,  and  other  parts  of  metrical 
harmony  ;  while  almost  every  word  has  its  higher  poetical  mean- 
ing and  intensity  ;  but  all  is  accompanied  with  a  certain  oppres- 
siveness of  ambitious  and  conscious  power.  In  the  Allegro  and 
Penseroso,  &c.,  he  is  in  better  spirits  with  all  about  him  ;  his 
eyes  had  not  gK)wn  dim,  nor  his  soul  been  forced  inwards  by  disap- 
pointment  into  a  proud  self-esteem,  which  he  narrowly  escaped 
erecting  into  self- worship.  He  loves  nature,  not  for  the  power 
he  can  get  out  of  it,  but  for  the  pleasure  it  affords  him  ;  he  is  at 
peace  with  town  as  well  as  country,  with  courts  and  cathedral- 
windows  ;  goes  to  the  play  and  laughs ;  to  the  village-green 
and  dances ;  and  his  study  is  placed,  not  in  the  Old  Jewry,  but 
in  an  airy  tower,  from  whence  he  good-naturedly  hopes  that  his 
candle — I  beg  pardon,  his  "  lamp,"  for  he  was  a  scholar  from 
the  first,  though  not  a  Puritan — ^may  be  "seen"  by  others.  His 
mirth,  it  isa^rue,  is  not  excessively  merry.  It  is,  as  Warton 
says,  the  "  dignity  of  mirth  ;"  but  it  is  happy,  and  that  is  all  that 
is  to  be  desired.  The  mode  is  not  to  be  dictated  by  the  mode  of 
others  ;  nor  would  it  be  so  interesting  if  it  were.  The  more  a 
man  is  himself  the  better,  provided  he  add  a  variation  to  the 
stock  of  comfort,  and  not  of  sullenness.  Milton  was  born  in  a 
time  of  great  changes  ;  and  in  the  order  of  events  and  the 
working  of  good  out  of  ill,  we  are  bound  to  be  grateful  to  what 
was  of  a  mixed  nature  in  himself,  without  arrogating  for  him  that 
exemption  from  the  mixture  which  belongs  to  no  man.  But  upon 
the  same  principle  on  which  nature  herself  loves  joy  better  than 
grief,  health  than  disease,  and  a  general  amount  of  welfare  than  the 
reverse  (urging  men  towards  it  where  it  does  not  prevail,  and  mak- 
ing many  a  form  of  discontent  itself  but  a  mode  of  pleasure  and 


174  MILTON. 


aelf-esteem),  so  Milton's  great  poem  never  has  been,  and  never  can 
be  popular  (sectarianism  apart)  compared  with  his  minor  ones ; 
nor  does  it,  in  the  very  highest  sense  of  popularity,  deserve  to 
be.  It  does  not  work  out  the  very  piety  it  proposes ;  and  the 
piety  which  it  does  propose  wants  the  highest  piety  of  an  intelli- 
gible charity  and  reliance.  Hence  a  secret  preference  for  his 
minor  poems  among  many  of  the  truest  and  selectest  admirers 
of  Paradise  Lost, — perhaps  with  all  who  do  not  admire  power  in 
any  shape  above  truth  in  the  best ;  hence  Warton's  fond  edition 
of  them,  delightful  for  its  luxurious  heap  of  notes  and  parallel 
passages  ;  and  hence  the  pleasure  of  being  able  to  extract  the 
finest  of  them,  without  misgiving,  into  a  volume  like  the  present. 


SATAN'S  RECOVERY  FROM  HIS  DOWNFALL. 

He  scarce  had  ceas'd,  when  the  superior  Fiend 

Was  moving  toward  the  shore,  his  ponderous  shield 

Behind  him  cast;  the  broad  circumference 

Hung  on  his  shoulders  like  the  moon,  whose  orb 

Through  optic  glass  the  Tuscan  artist  views 

At  evening  from  the  top  of  Fesole 

Or  in  Valdamo,  to  descry  new  lands. 

Rivers  or  mountains  in  her  spotty  globe. 

His  spear,  to  equal  which  the  tallest  pine 

Hewn  on  Norwegian  hills,  to  be  the  mast 

Of  some  great  ammiral,  were  but  a  wand,  •  ^ 

He  walk'd  with,  to  support  uneasy  steps 

Over  the  burning  marie,  not  like  those  steps 

On  Heaven's  azure  ;  and  the  torrid  clime 

Smote  on  him  sore  besides,  vaulted  with  fire : 

Nathless  he  so  endur'd,  till  on  the  beach 

Of  that  inflamed  sea  he  stood,  and  caU'd, 

His  legions,  angel  forms,  who  lay  entranc'd 

Thick  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strow  the  brooks 

In  Vallombrosa,  where  the  Etrurian  shades. 

High  over-arcK d,  embower  ;  or  scatter'd  sedge 

Afloat,  when  with  fierce  winds  Orion  arm'd 

Hath  vex'd  the  Red  Sea  coast,  whose  waves  o'erthrew 

Busiris  and  his  Memphian  Chivalry, 

While  with  perfidious  hatred  they  pursued 

The  sojourners  of  Goshen,  who  beheld 

From  the  safe  shore  their  floating  carcasses 


MILTON.  175 


And  broken  chariot  wheels  :   so  thick  bestrown, 

Abject  and  lost  lay  these,  covering  the  flood. 

Under  amazement  of  their  hideous  change. 

He  calVd  so  loud,  that  all  the  hollow  deep 

Of  Hell  resounded.     Princes,  Potentates, 

Warriors,  the  flower  of  Heaven,  once  yours,  now  lost. 

If  such  astonishment  as  this  can  seize 

Eternal  Spirits  ;  or  have  ye  chosen  this  place 

After  the  toil  of  battle  to  repose 

Your  wearied  virtue,  for  the  ease  you  find  • 

To  slumber  here,  as  in  the  vales  of  Heaven  ? 

Or  in  this  abject  posture  have  ye  sworn 

To  adore  the  conqueror  ?  who  now  beholds 

Cherub  and  Seraph  rolling  in  the  flood, 

With  scatter'd  arms  and  ensigns ;  till  anon 

His  swift  pursuers  from  heaven-gates  discern 

The  advantage,  and,  descending,  tread  us  down. 

Thus  drooping,  or  with  linked  thunderbolts 

Transfix  us  to  the  bottom  of  this  gulf. 

Awake,  arise,  or  he  for  ever  fallen  ! 


THE  FALLEN  ANGELS  GATHERED  AGAIN  TO  WAR. 

All  these  and  more  came  flocking ;  but  with  looks 
Downcast  and  damp ;  yet  such  wherein  appear'd 
Obscure,  some  glimpse  of  joy,  to  have  found  their  chief 
Not  in  despair ;  which  on  his  countenance  cast 
Like  doubtful  hue ;  but  he,  his  wonted  pride 
Soon  recollecting,  with  high  words,  that  bore 
Semblance  of  worth,  not  substance,  gently  rais'd 
Their  fainting  courage,  and  dispell'd  their  fears. 
Then  straight  commands,  that  at  the  warlike  sound 
Of  trumpets  loud  and  clarions  be  uprear'd 
His  mighty  standard :  that  proud  honor  claim'd 
Azazel  as  Ms  right,  a  cherub  tall ; 
Who  forthwith  from  the  glittering  staff"  unfurl'd 
The  imperial  ensign ;  which,  full  high  advanc'd. 
Shone  like  a  meteor  streaming  to  the  windy 
With  gems  and  golden  lustre  rich  emblaz'd, 
Seraphic  arms  and  trophies ;  all  the  while 
Sonorous  metal  blowing  martial  sounds  : 
At  which  the  universal  host  up-sent 


76  MILTON. 


A  shout,  that  tore  HelVs  concave,  and  beyond 

Frighted  the  reign  of  Chaos  and  old  JVight. 

All  in  a  moment  through  the  gloom  were  seen 

Ten  thousand  banners  rise  into  the  air 

With  orient  colors  waving :  with  them  rose 

A  forest  huge  of  spears  ;  and  thronging  helms 

Appear'd,  and  serried  shields,  in  thick  array 

Of  depth  immeasurable :  anon  they  move 

In  perfect  phalanx  to  the  Dorian  mood 

Of  flutes  and  soft  recorders  ;  such  as  raia'd 

To  height  of  noblest  temper  heroes  old 

Arming  to  battle  ;  and  instead  of  rage 

Deliberate  valor  breathed,  firm  and  unmoved 

With  dread  of  death  to  flight  or  foul  retreat. 

Nor  wanting  power  to  mitigate  and  swage 

With  solemn  touches  troubled  thoughts,  and  chase 

Anguish,  and  doubt,  and  fear,  and  sorrow,  and  pain. 

From  mortal  or  immortal  minds.     Thus  they 

Breathing  united  force,  with  fixed  thought, 

Mov'd  on  in  silence  to  sBft pipes,  that  charmed 

Their  painful  steps  o'er  the  burnt  soil :  and  now 

Advanc'd  in  view  they  stand,  a  horrid  front 

Of  dreadful  length  and  dazzling  arms,  in  guise 

Of  warriors  old  with  order'd  spear  and  shield ; 

Awaiting  what  command  their  mighty  chief 

Had  to  impose  :  he  through  the  armM  files 

Darts  his  experienc'd  eye,  and  soon  traverse 

The  whole  battalion  views ;  their  order  due ; 

Their  visages  and  stature  as  of  gods  ; 

Their  number  last  he  sums.     And  now  his  heart 

Distends  with  pride,  and  hardening  in  his  strength 

Glories :  for  never,  since  created  man, 

Met  such  embodied  force,  as  nam'd  with  these 

Could  merit  more  than  that  small  infantry 

Warr'd  on  by  cranes  ;  though  all  the  giant  brood 

Of  Phlegra  with  the  heroic  race  were  join'd 

That  fought  at  Thebes  and  Ilium,  on  each  side 

Mix'd  with  auxiliar  gods  ,•  and  what  resounds 

In  fable  or  romance  of  Uther's  son 

Begirt  with  British  and  Armoric  knights  ; 

And  all  who  since,  baptized  or  infidel. 

Jousted  in  Aspramont,  or  Montalban 

Damasco,  or  Marocco,  or  Trebisond, 

Or  whom  Biserta  sent  from  Afric  shore. 

When  Charlemain  with  all  his  peerage  fell 

By  Fontarabbia.    Thus  far  these  beyond 


MILTON.  177 


Compare  of  mortal  prowess,  yet  observ'd 

Their  dread  commander  :  he,  above  the  rest 

In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent, 

Stood  like  a  tower :  his  form  had  yet  not  lost. 

All  her  original  brightness  ;  nor  appear' d 

Less  than  arch- angel  ruined,  and  the  excess 

Of  glory  obscur'd :  as  when  the  sun,  new  risen,  ^ 

Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  air 

Shorn  of  his  beams  ;  or  from  behind  the  moon. 

In  dim  eclipse,  disastrous  twilight  sheds 

On  half  the  nations,  and  toithfear  of  change  Hf  ^ 

Perplexes  monarchs.    Darkened  so,  yet  shone 

Above  them  all  the  arch-angel :  but  his  face 

Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intrenched  ;  and  care 

Sat  on  his  faded  cheek  ;  but  under  brows 

Of  dauntless  courage,  and  considerate  pride. 

Waiting  revenge. 


Arf^^iWWW^^A^* 


VULCAN. 

Nor  was  his  name  unheard,  or  unador'd 
In  ancient  Greece ; — and  in  Ausonian  land 
Men  call'd  him  Mulciber  ;  and  how  he  fell 
From  heaven,  they  fabled,  thrown  by  angry  Jove 
Sheer  o'er  the  crystal  battlements.    From  mom 
To  noon  he  fell  ;—from  noon  to  dewy  eve, 
A  summer's  day  ;  and  with  the  setting  sun 
Droptfrom  the  zenith  like  a  falling  star. 


■rMWW«i^M>^^r^^ 


THE  FALLEN  ANGELS  HEARD  RISING  FROM  COUNCIL 


Their  rising  all  at  once  was  as  the  sound 
Of  thunder  heard  remote. 
13 


178  MILTON. 


SATAN  ON  THE  WING  FOR  EARTH. 

Meanwhile  the  adversary  of  God  and  man, 

Satan,  with  thoughts  inflam'd  of  highest  design, 

Puts  on  swift  wings,  and  towards  the  gates  of  hell 

Explores  his  solitary  flight :  sometimes 

He  scours  the  right-hand  coast,  sometimes  the  left ; 

Now  shaves  with  level  wing  the  deep  ;  then  soars 

Up  to  the  fiery  concave  towering,  high. 

As  when  far  off  at  sea  a  fleet  descried 

Hangs  in  the  cloudSy  by  equinoctial  winds 

Close  sailing  from  Bengala,  or  the  isles 

Of  Ternate  and  Tidore,  whence  merchants  bring 

Their  spicy  drugs ;  they,  on  the  trading  flood, 

Through  the  wide  Ethiopian  to  the  Cape, 

Ply  stemming  nightly  towards  the  pole  :   So  seemed 

Far  off*  the  flying  Fiend. 


•t 


THE  MEETING  OF  SATAN  AND  DEATH. 

The  other  shape 
Jf  shape  it  might  be  calPd  that  shape  had  none 
Distinguishable  in  member,  Joint,  or  limb  ; 
Or  substance  might  be  calVd  that  shadow  seemed. 
For  each  seemed  either :   black  it  stood  as  JVight, 
Fierce  as  ten  Furies,  terrible  as  Hell, 
And  shook  a  dreadful  dart :  what  seemed  his  head 
The  likeness  of  a  kingly  crown  had  on. 
Satan  was  now  at  hand,  and  from  his  seat 
The  monster  moving  onward  came  as  fast 
With  horrid  strides  ;  Hell  trembled  as  he  strode. 
The  undaunted  Fiend  what  this  might  be  admir'd, 
Admir'd,  not  fear'd  ;  God  and  his  Son  except. 
Created  thing  naught  valued  he,  nor  shunn'd ; 
And  with  disdainful  look  thus  first  began  : — 

"  Whence  and  what  art  thou,  execrable  shape  ! 
That  dar'st,  though  grim  and  terrible,  advance 
Thy  miscreated  front  athwart  my  way 


MILTON.  179 


To  yonder  gates  ?  through  them  I  mean  to  pass, 
That  be  assur'd,  with  leave  unask'd  of  thee : 
Retire,  or  taste  thy  folly  ;  and  learn  by  proof, 
Hell-born  !  not  to  contend  with  Spirits  of  Heaven." 

To  whom  the  Goblin,  full  of  WTath,  replied : — 
**  Art  thou  that  Traitor-angel ;  art  thou  he 
Who  first  broke  peace  in  heaven,  and  faith,  till  then 
Unbroken  ;  and  in  proud  rebellious  arms 
Drevy  after  him  the  third  part  of  Heaven's  sons 
Conjur'd  against  the  Highest ;  for  which  both  thou 
And  they,  outcast  from  God,  are  here  condemn'd 
To  waste  eternal  days  in  wo  and  pain  ? 
And  reckon'st  thou  thyself  with  Spirits  of  Heaven, 
Hell-doom'd  !   and  breath'st  defiance  here  and  scorn. 
Where  I  reign  king,  and  to  enrage  thee  more. 
Thy  king  and  lord  ?     Back  to  thy  punishment, 
False  fugitive !  and  to  thy  speed  add  wings. 
Lest  with  a  whip  of  scorpions  I  pursue 
Thy  lingering,  or  with  one  stroke  of  this  dart. 
Strange  horror  seize  thee,  and  pangs  unfelt  before." 

So  spake  the  grizly  Terror,  and  in  shape, 
So  speaking  and  so  threatening,  grew  ten-fold 
More  dreadful  and  deform.     On  the  other  side 
Incens'd  with  indignation,  Satan  stood 
Unterrified ;  and  like  a  comet  hurn^d. 
That  fires  the  length  of  Ophiuchus  huge 
In  the  arctic  sky,  and  from  his  horrid  hair 
Shakes  pestilence  and  war.     Each  at  the  head 
Levelled  his  deadly  aim  ;  their  fatal  hands 
JVb  second  stroke  intend ;  and  such  a  frown 
Each  cast  at  the  other,  as  when  two  black  clouds 
With  Heaveris  artillery  fraught,  come  rattling  on 
Over  the  Caspian,  then  stand  front  to  front. 
Hovering  a  space,  till  winds  the  signal  blow 
To  join  their  dark  encounter  in  mid  air : 
So  frown'd  the  mighty  combatants,  that  hell 
Grew  darker  at  their  frown  ;  so  match'd  they  stood ; 
For  never  but  once  more  was  either  like 
To  meet  so  great  a  foe :  and  now  great  deeds 
Had  been  achiev'd,  whereof  all  hell  had  rung. 
Had  not  the  snaky  Sorceress  that  sat 
Fast  by  hell-gate,  and  kept  the  fatal  key. 
Risen,  and  with  hideous  outcry  ruah'd  between. 


180  MILTON. 


♦  L'ALLEGRO. 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  midnight  born 

In  Stygian  cave  torlorn, 

'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieksy  and  sights  unholy 

Find  out  some  uncouth  cell, 

Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  her  jealous  wings. 

And  the  night-raven  sings ; 

There  under  ehon  shades,  and  low-brow'd  rocks 

As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 

But  come,  thou  goddess  fair  and  free. 

In  heaven  yclept  Euphrosyne, 

And  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth ; 

Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth 

With  two  sister  Graces  more. 

To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore  : 

Or  whether,  as  some  sager  sing,i 

The  frolic  wind,  that  breathes  the  spring. 

Zephyr  with  Aurora  playing. 

As  he  met  her  once  a  Maying, 

There  on  beds  of  violets  blue  * 

And  fresh-blown  roses  wash'd  in  dew, 

Fill'd  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair. 

So  buxom,  blithe  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 

Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, 

Quips  and  Cranks,  and  wanton  Wiles,2 

Nods  and  Becks  and  wreathld  Smiles 

Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 

And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek  ; 

Sport  that  WTinkled  Care  derides, 

And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 

Come  and  trip  it,  as  you  go. 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe  ; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 

The  mountain-nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 

And,  if  I  give  thee  honor  due. 

Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew. 


MILTON.  181 


To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 

In  unreproved  pleasures  free ; 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight. 

And  singing,  startle  the  dull  night, 

From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 

Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise ; 

Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow. 

And  at  my  window  bid  good  morrow. 

Through  the  sweet-briar,  or  the  vine. 

Or  the  twisted  eglantine ; 

While  the  cock  with  lively  din. 

Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin. 

And  to  the  stack  or  the  barn-door 

Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before  : 

Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 

Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn. 

From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill, 

Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill : 

Sometimes  walking,  not  unseen, 

By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 

Right  against  the  eastern  gate. 

Where  the  great  Sun  begins  his  state. 

Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light, 

The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight ; 

While  the  ploughman  near  at  hand. 

Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land. 

And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe. 

And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe. 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale,* 

Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures. 

Whilst  the  landskip  round  it  measures ; 

Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray. 

Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray ; 

Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 

The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 

Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied. 

Shallow  brooks  and  rivers  wide. 

Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 

Bosom' d  high  in  tufted  trees. 

Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies. 

The  cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes.' 

Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes. 

From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks  ; 

Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis,  met. 

Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 


182  MILTON. 


Of  herbs,  and  other  country  messes, 
Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses ; 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves ; 
Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 
To  the  tann'd  haycock  in  the  mead.- 
Sometimes,  with  secure  delight. 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite. 
When  the  merry  bells  ring  round. 
And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound  ,^. 

To  many  it  youth  and  many  S  maid,  IP** 

Dancing  in  the  chequer' d  shade  ; 
And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 
On  a  sunshine  holy-day, 
Till  the  live-long  day-light  fail. 
Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale. 
With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat. 
How  faery  Mab  the  junkets  eat : 
She  was  pinch'd,  and  puU'd,  she  said. 
And  he,  by  friars'  lantern  led ; 
Tells  how  the  drudging  Goblin  sweat. 
To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set. 
When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 
:  His  shadowy  flail  had  thrash'd  the  corn, 
That  ten-day  laborers  could  not  end  ; 
Then  lies  him,  down  the  lubber  fiend. 
And  stretch'd  out  all  the  chimney's  length 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength  ; 
And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings. 
Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 
Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep. 
By  whispering  winds  soon  lulVd  to  sleep. 
Tower'd  cities  please  us  then, 
^nd  the  bu^sy  hum  of  men. 
Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold. 
In  weeds  of  peace,  high  triumphs  hold. 
With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence,^  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit,  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace,  whom  all  commend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 
In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear ; 
And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry. 
With  masque  and  antique  pageantry ; 
Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 


MILTON.  183 


Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon. 

If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on,' 

Or  sweetest  Shakspeare,  Fancy's  child, 

Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild 

And  ever  against  eating  cares. 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs. 

Married  to  immortal  verse, 

Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce. 

In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 

Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out. 

With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning. 

The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running. 

Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 

The  hidden  soul  of  harmony  ; 

That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head 

From  golden  slumbers  on  a  bed 

Of  heap' dElysian  flowers  and  hear 

Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 

Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 

His  half  regain' d  Eurydice. 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give. 

Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 

Milton  shows  his  early  fondness  for  the  Italian  language,  by 
taking  from  it  the  titles  of  these  poems.  V  Allegro  is  the  mirth- 
ful (man),  and  U  Penseroso  the  melancholy  (pensive  rather,  or 
thoughtful).  These  two  poems  are  supposed,  with  good  reason, 
to  have  been  written  at  Horton  in  Buckinghamshire,  where  his 
parents  were  residing  at  the  time  of  their  composition.  I  men- 
tion this  circumstance,  first  because  it  is  pleasant  to  know  when 
poetry  is  written  in  poetical  places,  and  next  for  the  sake  of 
such  readers  as  may  happen  to  know  the  spot. 

1 "  Some  sager  sing." — Ben  Jonson,  in  one  of  his  Masks.  "  Be- 
cause," says  Warburton,  "  those  who  give  to  Mirth  such  gross 
companions  as  Eating  and  Drinking,  are  the  less  sage  mytholo- 
gists." 

2«  Quips,  and  Cranks,  and  wanton  Wiles." — What  a  Crank  is,  the 
commentators  are  puzzled  to  say.  They  guess,  from  analogy 
with  "  winding  turns"  (which  the  word  originally  appears  to 
signify),  that  the  poet  means  cross  purposes,  or  some  other  such 
pastime.  The  witty  author  of  Hints  to  a  young  Reviewer  (after- 
wards, I  believe,  no  mean  reviewer  himself),  who  criticised  these 


184  MILTON. 


poems  upon  the  pleasant  assumption  of  their  having  "just  come 
out,"  and  expressed  his  astonishment  at  "  Mr.  Milton's  amatory- 
notions"  (I  quote  from  memory),  takes  occasion,  from  the  obscu- 
rity of  this  word,  to  observe,  that  the  "  phenomenon  of  a  trip- 
ping crank"  would  be  very  curious,  and  "  doubtless  attract  nu- 
merous spectators."  He  also,  in  reference  to  passages  a  little 
further  on,  wonders  how  "  Mirth  can  be  requested  to  come  and 
go  at  the  same  instant ;"  and  protests  at  the  confident  immortal- 
ity of  the  "young  gentleman  who  takes  himself  for  a  poet,"  in 
proposing  to  live  with  Mirth  and  Liberty  both  together. 

To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 
In  unreproved  pleasures  free. 

How  delightful  is  wit,  when  bantering  in  behalf  of  excellence  ! 

»  "  Through  the  sweet-briar;'  &c.— «  Sweet-briar  and  eglantine," 
says  Warton,  "  are  the  same  plant :  by  the  twisted  eglantine  he 
therefore  means  the  honey-suckle :  all  three  are  plants  often 
growing  against  the  side  or  walls  of  a  house."  This  is  true ; 
yet  the  deduction  is  hardly  certain.  The  same  name  sometimes 
means  different  flowers,  in  different  counties ;  as  may  be  seen 
from  passages  in  Shakspeare.  Eglantine,  however,  is  the 
French  word  for  the  flower  of  the  sweet-briar  (eglantier) ;  and 
hence  it  came  to  mean,  in  English,  the  briar  itself.  Perhaps,  if 
Milton  had  been  asked  why  he  used  it  in  this  place,  he  would 
have  made  Johnson's  noble  answer  to  the  lady,  when  she  inquir- 
ed why  he  defined  pastern,  in  his  Dictionary,  to  be  a  horse's 
knee  ; — "  Ignorance,  madam,  ignorance."  Poets  are  often  fonder 
of  flowers  than  learned  in  their  names;  and  Milton,  like  his 
illustrious  brethren,  Chaucer  and  Spenser,  was  born  within  the 
sound  of  Bow  bell. 

4  "  And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale." — It  used  to  be  thought,  till 
Mr.  Headley  informed  Warton  otherwise,  telling  his  tale  meant 
telling  a  love-tale,  or  story.  The  correction  of  this  fancy  is  now 
admitted  ;  namely,  that  tale  is  a  technical  word  for  numbering 
sheep,  and  is  so  used  by  several  poets, — Dryden  for  one.  War- 
ton,  like  a  proper  Arcadian,  was  loth  to  give  up  the  fancy  ;  but 
he  afterwards  found  the  new  interpretation  to  be  much  the  better 


MILTON.  185 


one.  Every  shepherd  telling  his  story  or  love-tale,  under  a 
hawthorn,  at  one  and  the  same  instant,  all  over  a  district,  would 
resemble  indeed  those  pastoral  groups  upon  bed-curtains,  in 
which,  and  in  no  other  place,  such  marvels  are  to  be  met  with. 
Yet,  in  common  perhaps  with  most  young  readers,  I  remember 
the  time  when  I  believed  it,  and  was  as  sorry  as  Warton  to  be 
undeceived. 

^ '*  The  Cynosure  of  neighboring  eye.* — Cynosure  (dog's-tail)  for 
load-star,  must  have  been  a  term  a  little  hazardous,  as  well  as 
over-learned,  when  it  first  appeared ;  though  Milton,  thinking  of  the 
nymph  who  was  changed  into  the  star  so  called  (since  known  as 
Ursa  minor),  was  probably  of  opinion,  that  it  gave  his  image  a 
peculiar  fitness  and  beauty.  That  enjoying  and  truly  poetical 
commentator,  Thomas  Warton,  quotes  a  passage  from  Browne's 
Britannia's  Pastorals,  that  may  have  been  in  Milton's  recol- 
lection : — 


Yond  palace,  whose  pale  turret  tops 
Over  the  stately  wood  survey  the  coj 


copse ; 

and  then  he  indulges  in  pleasing  memories  of  the  old  style  of 
building,  and  in  regrets  for  the  new,  which  was  less  picturesque 
and  less  given  to  concealment.  "  This  was  the  great  mansion- 
house,"  says  he,  '•  in  Milton's  early  days.  With  respect  to 
their  rural  residences,  there  was  a  coyness  in  our  Gothic  ances- 
tors. '  Modern  seats  are  seldom  so  deeply  ambushed."  Warton 
would  have  been  pleased  at  the  present  revival  of  the  old  taste, 
which  indeed  is  far  superior  to  the  bald  and  barrack-like  insipi- 
dities of  his  day ;  though  as  to  the  leafy  accessories,  I  am  afraid 
the  poetic  pleasure  of  living  "  embosom'd "  in  trees  is  not 
thought  the  most  conducive  to  health. 

6  "  Main  influence." — Da  begli  occhi  un  piacer  si  caldo  piove. 
Such  fervent  pleasure  rains  from  her  sweet  eyes. 

Petrarch,  Son.  cxxxi 

"f  Jonson's  learned  sock." — "Milton  has  more  frequently  and 
openly  copied  the  plays  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  than  of 
Shakspeare.  One  is  therefore  surprised,  that  in  his  panegyric 
on  the  stage  he  did  not  mention  the  twin-bards,  when  he  cele- 


186  MILTON. 


brated  the  learned  sock  of  Jonson,  and  the  wood-notes  wild  of 
Shakspeare.     But  he  concealed  his  love." — Warton. 

Perhaps  he  was  afraid  of  avowing  it,  on  account  of  the  licence 
of  their  muse. 


IL  PENSEROSO. 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  Father  bred  ! 

How  little  you  bested. 

Or  fill  the  fix^d  mind  with  all  your  toys ! 

Dwell  in  some  idle  brain. 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess. 

As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  ih^t  people  the  sunbeams ;» 

Or  likeliest  hovering  dreams. 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 

But  hail,  thou  Goddess,  sage  and  holy, 

Hail,  divinest  Melancholy ! 

WJiose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 

To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sights 

And  therefore,  to  our  weaker  view, 

Oerlaidwith  black,  staid  wisdom's  hue; 

Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 

Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem,^ 

Or  that  starr'd  Ethiop  queen  that  strove 

To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 

The  sea-nymphs,  and  their  powers  ofiended : 

,  Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended  : 

Thee  bright-haired  Vesta,  long  of  yore, 

To  solitary  Saturn  bore : 

His  daughter  she  ;  in  Saturn's  reign 

Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain : 

Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 

He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 

Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove. 

Whilst  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 

Come,  pensive  nUn,  devout  and  pure, 

Sober,  stedfast,  and  demure. 

All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain. 

Flowing  with  majestic  train. 


MILTON.  187 


And  sable  stole  of  Cypress  lawn 

Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 

Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state. 

With  even  step  and  musing  gait, 

And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies. 

Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes  ; 

There  held  in  holy  passion  still, 

Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till. 

With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast. 

Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast, — 

And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace  and  Quiet, 

Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet. 

And  hears  the  Mitses  in  a  ring 

Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing  : 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 

That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure  : 

But  first,  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing. 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne, 

The  cherub  Contemplation  ;J0 

And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along. 

Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song. 

In  her  sweetest  saddest  plight. 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  night, 

While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 

Gently  o'er  the  accustom'd  oak. 

Sweet  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly. 

Most  musical,  most  melancholy  /  n 

Thee,  chauntress,  oft  the  woods  among 

I  woo  to  hear  thy  even-song  : 

And  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 

On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green. 

To  behold  the  wandering  moon, 

Riding  near  her  highest  noon. 

Like  one  that  hath  been  led  astray  i3 

Through  the  heaven^ s  wide  pathless  way  ; 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bow'd. 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft,  on  a  plot  of  rising  ground. 

I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound. 

Over  some  wide-water' d  shore. 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar: 

Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 

Some  still  removed  place  will  fit. 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  rotrni,^^ 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloomy 


188  MILTON. 


#■ 


Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth  y 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth. 

Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm. 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour, 

Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  towery^* 

Where  I  may  oft  out-watch  the  Bear 

With  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 

The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 

What  worlds,  or  what  vast  regions,  hold 

The  immortal  mind,  that  hath  forsook 

Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook  : 

And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 

In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground, 

Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 

With  planet  or  with  element. 

Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 

In  sceptred  pall  come  sweeping  by. 

Presenting  Thebes  or  Pelops'  line, 

Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine  ; 

Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 

Ennobled  hath  the  buskin'd  stage. 

But  0,  sad  virgin,  that  thy  power 

Might  raise  Musaeus  from  his  bower  ? 

Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 

Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 

Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek, 

And  made  Hell  grant  what  love  did  seek . 

Or  call  up  him  that  left  half  told  is 

The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold. 

Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 

And  who  had  Canace  to  wife. 

That  own'd  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass ; 

And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass. 

On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride : 

And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 

In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung. 

Of  turneys  and  of  trophies  hung. 

Of  forests  and  enchantments  drear. 

Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 

Thus  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career. 

Till  civil-suited  morn  appear  ; 

Not  trick'd  and  frounc'd  as  she  was  wont 

With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt. 

But  kercheft  in  a  comely  cloud. 

While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud. 


MILTON.  189 


Or  usher' d  with  a  shower  still 

When  the  gtist  hath  blown  his  fill t 

Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves 

With  minute-drops  from  off  the  eaves  : 

And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 

His  flaring  beams,  me.  Goddess,  bring 

To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves^ 

And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves, 

Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak. 

Where  the  rude  axe^  with  heaved  stroke^ 

Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt. 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 

There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook, 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look. 

Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye. 

While  the  bee  with  honied  thigh. 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing. 

And  the  waters  murmuring. 

With  such  consort  as  they  keep. 

Entice  the  dewy-feather' d  Sleep  ; 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings  in  airy  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  display'd, 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid  ; 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath. 

Sent  by  some  spirit  to  mortals  good. 

Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  fest  never  fail 

To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale. 

And  love  the  high  embowed  roof. 

With  antick  pillars,  massy  proof. 

And  storied  windows  richly  dight. 

Casting  a  dim  religious  light  : 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 

To  the  full-voic' d  quire  below  ; 

In  service  high  and  anthems  clear. 

As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear^ 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstacies. 

And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell. 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew. 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew ; 


r90  MILTON. 


Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 
.  These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give. 
And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 

He  pute  the  Penseroso  last,  as  a  climax  ;  because  he  prefers 
he  pensive  mood  to  the  mirthful.  I  do  not  know  why  he  spells 
vhe  word  in  this  manner.  I  have  never  seen  it  without  the  i, — 
Pensieroso.  In  Florio's  Dictionary  the  ie  varies  into  an  o,— 
Pensoroso  ;  whence  apparently  the  abbreviated  form, — Pensoso, 

8  "Jls  thick  as  motes  in  the  sunne  beams." — Chaucer. — But  see  how 
by  one  word,  people,  a  great  poet  improves  what  he  borrows. 

6  "  Prince  Memnon's  sister." — It  does  not  appear,  by  the  ancient 
authors,  that  Memnon  had  a  sister ;  but  Milton  wished  him  to 
have  one  ;  so  here  she  is.  It  has  been  idly  objected  to  Spenser, 
who  dealt  much  in  this  kind  of  creation,  that  he  had  no  right  to 
add  to  persons  and  circumstances  in  old  mythology.  As  if  the 
same  poetry  which  saw  what  it  did  might  not  see  more ! 

10  «  The  cherub  Contemplation." — Learnedly  called  cherub,  not 
seraph  ;  because  the  cherubs  were  the  angels  of  knowledge,  the 
seraphs  of  love.  In  the  celestial  hierarchy,  by  a  noble  senti- 
ment, the  seraphs  rank  higher  than  the  cherubs. 

11  "  Most  musical,  most  melancholy."— K  question  has  been  started 
of  late  years,  whether  the  song  of  the  nightingale  is  really 
melancholy ;  whether  it  ought  not  rather  to  be  called  merry,  as, 
in  fact,  Chaucer  does  call  it.  But  merry,  in  Chaucer's  time, 
did  not  mean  solely  what  it  does  now  -,  but  any  kind  of  hasty  or 
strenuous  prevalence,  as  "  merry  mew,"  meaning  men  in  their 
heartiest  and  manliest  condition.  He  speaks  even  of  the  "  merry 
organ,"  meaning  the  church  organ — the  "  merry  organ  of  the 
mass."  Coleridge,  in  some  beautiful  lines,  thought  fit  to  take  the 
merry  side,  out  of  a  notion,  real  or  supposed,  of  the  necessity  of 
vindicating  nature  from  sadness.  But  the  question  is  surely 
very  simple,— one  of  pure  association  of  ideas.  The  night- 
ingale's song  is  not  in  itself  melancholy,  that  is,  no  result  ot 
sadness  on  the  part  of  the  bird ;  but  coming,  as  it  does,  in  the 
night-time,  and  making  us  reflect,  and  reminding  us  by  its  very 
beauty  of  the  mystery  and  fleetingness  of  all  sweet  things,  it 


MILTON.  191 

- i 


becomes  melancholy  in  the  finer  sei^e  of  the  word,  by  the  com- 
bined  overshadowing  of  the  hour  anii  of  thought. 

12  '<  Like  one  that  hath  been  led  astray." — This  calls  to  mind  a 
beautiful  passage  about  the  moon,  ki  Spenser's  Epithalamium  : — 

Who  is  the  same  that  at  my  window  peeps  ? 
Or  who  is  that  fair  face  that  shines  so  bright  ? 
Is  it  not  Cynthia,  she  that  never  sleeps, 
JBut  walks  about  high  heaven  all  the  night  7 

w  «  Where  glowing  embers^ — Here,  also,  the  reader  is  reminded 
of  Spenser. — See  p.  88 : — 

A  little  glooming  light  much  like  a  shade. 

14  "  And  may  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 
Be  seen" 

The  picturesque  of  the  "  be  seen"  has  been  much  admired. 
Its  good-nature  seems  to  deserve  no  less  approbation.  The  light 
is  seen  afar  by  the  traveller,  giving  him  a  sense  of  home  com- 
fort, and,  perhaps,  helping  to  guide  his  way. 

15 «'  Call  up  him  that  left  half  told 

^      The  story  of  Camimscan  bold" 

"W 

Cnaucer,  with  his  Squire's  Tale.  But  why  did  Milton  turn 
Cambusc&n,  that  is,  Cambus  the  Khan,  into  Cambuscan.  The 
accent  in  Chaucer  is  never  thrown  on  the  middle  syllable. 


LYCIDAS. 


The  poet  bewails  the  death  of  his  young  friend  and  fellow- 
student,  Edward  King,  of  Christ's  College,  Cambridge,  who  was 
drowned  at  sea,  on  his  way  to  visit  his  friends  in  Ireland.  The 
vessel,  which  was  in  bad  condition,  went  suddenly  to  the  bottom, 
in  calm  weather,  not  far  from  the  English  coast ;  and  all  on 
board  perished.  Milton  was  then  in  his  twenty-ninth  year,  and 
his  friend  in  his  twenty-fifth.     The  poem,  with  good  reason,  is 


192  MILTON. 


supposed  to  have  been  written,  like  the  preceding  ones,  at  Hor- 
ton,  in  Buckinghamshire. 

Yet  once  more,  0  ye  laurels,  and  once  more, 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude. 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year 
Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion  dear. 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due  : 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime. 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas  ?  he  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 
Without  the  meed  of  some,  melodious  tear.^^ 

Begin,  then,  sisters  of  the  sacred  well, 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring. 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string," 
Hence  with  denial  vain,  and  coy  excuse, 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 
With  lucky  words  favor  my  destin'd  urn. 
And,  as  he  passes,  turn, 
And  bid  fair  peace  to  be  my  sable  shroud  : 

For  we  were  nurst  upon  the  self-same  hill,  «, 

Fed  the  same  flock  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill : 
Together  both,  e'er  the  high  lawns  appear'd 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  Morn^ 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  grey-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn. 
Batt'ning  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night 
Oft  till  the  star,  that  rose,  at  evening,  bright, 
Tow'rds  heav'n's  descent  had  slop'd  his  west'ring  wheel. 
Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute, 
Temper'd  to  the  oaten  flute  ; 
Rough  Satyrs  danc'd ;  and  Fauns  with  cloven  heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long 
And  old  Damaetas  lov'd  to  hear  our  song. 

But,  0  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 
JVow  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return  ! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert  caves. 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown. 
And  all  their  echoes  mourn. 
The  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses  green. 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 


MILTON.  193 


Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 

As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose, 

Or  taint  worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze, 

Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear. 

When  first  the  white  thorn  blows  ; 

Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 

Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,when  the  remorseless  deep 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  lov'd  Lycidas  ?  is 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep. 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie. 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high. 
Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream  :^^ 
Ah,  me  !  I  fondly  dream. 

Had  ye  been  there — for  what  could  that  have  done  ? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore. 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son. 
Whom  universal  Nature  did  lament, 
When,  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar. 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore  ? 

Alas  !  what  boots  it  with  incessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely,  slighted,  shepherd's  trade. 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse  ? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shadcj 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  J^eara's  hair  ? 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 
(  That  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds) 
To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days ; 
But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze. 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  th'  abhorred  shears. 
And  slits  the  thin-spun  life. — " But  not  the  praise" 
Phoebus  reply'd,  and  touched  my  trembling  ears  ; 
*'  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 
Nor  in  the  glist'ring  foil 
Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumor  lies. 
But  lives,  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyeSy 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove ; 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed. 
Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed," 

0  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honor'd- flood. 
Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crown'd  with  vocal  reeds. 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood : 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds. 
And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea 
14 


194  MILTON. 


That  came  in  Neptune's  plea ; 

He  ask'd  the  waves,  and  ask'd  the  felon  winds, 

What  hard  mishap  hath  doom'd  this  gentle  swain  ? 

And  question'd  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 

That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory. 

They  knew  not  of  his  story ; 

And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings. 

That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  stray'd ; 

The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 

Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  pla^fd. 

It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark, 

Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigg'd  with  curses  dark, 

That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing  slow. 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge. 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscrib'd  with  woe.'^ 
"  Ah  !  who  hath  reft,"  quoth  he,  *'  my  dearest  pledge  ?** 
Last  came  and  last  did  go."' 
The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake  ; 
Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain 
(The  golden  opes,  and  iron  shuts  amain), 
He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake : 
"  How  well  could  I  have  spar'd  for  thee,  young  swain,*^ 
"  Enow  of  such,  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 
**  Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold  ? 
"  Of  other  cares  they  little  reckoning  make, 
"  Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 
*'  And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest ; 
"  Blind  mouths  !   that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to  hold 
"  A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learn'd  aught  else  the  least 
**  Thai  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs ! 
"  What  recks  it  them?    What  need  they  ?    They  are  sped; 
"  And,  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 
"  Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw ; 
"  The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed; 
*'  But  swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 
"  Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread ;  t 

*'  Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw  ^^ 

"  Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said : 
"  But  tliat  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 
"  Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more." 

Return,  Alpheus,  the  dread  voice  is  past,^ 
That  shrunk  thy  streams  ;  return,  Siciliaii  Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  beUs,  and  flowerets,  of  a  thousand  hues. 


MILTON.  195 


Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 

Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks, 

On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart-star  sparely  looks : 

Throw  hither  all  y  ur  quaint  enamelTd  eyes. 

That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honied  showers^ 

And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers  : 

Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 

The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jes:i?amine. 

The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy /rca^ti  with  jet. 

The  glowing  violet,^' 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attir'd  woodbine, 

With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the* pensive  head. 

And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears  : 

Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed. 

And  daffodillies  Jill  their  cups  with  tears, 

To  strow  the  laureat  hearse  where  Lycid  lies  ; 

For,  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease. 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise. — 

Ay  me  !  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas, 

Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurl'd. 

Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

Where  thou  perhaps,  under  the  whelming  tide. 

Visit  St  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world  ; 

Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 

Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old. 

Where  the  great  Vision  of  the  guarded  Mount^ 

Looks  towards  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold  ; 

Look  homeward.  Angel,  now,  and  melt  with  ruth  : 

And,  0,  ye  dolphins !  waft  the  hapless  youth. 

Weep  no  more,  woful  Shepherds,  weep  no  more, 
For  Lycidas  your  sorrow  is  not  dead. 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor ;' 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed. 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head, 
And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled  ore 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky : 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high. 
Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that  waWd  the  wave* 
Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along, 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves. 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above. 
In  solemn  troops  and  sweet  societies. 
That  sing,  and,  singing,  in  their  glory  move. 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 


196  MILTON 


Now  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more ; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  genius  of  the  shore, 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  and  rills, 

Wliile  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals  grey  ; 
He  touch'd  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills. 

With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay : 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  all  the  hills. 
And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay : 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitch'd  his  mantle  blue  : 

To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new. 

6  "  Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear." — Catullus  USes  the 
word  in  a  like  sense,  when  alluding  to  the  elegies  of  Simonides 
in  his  touching  expostulation  with  his  friend,  Cornificius,  whom 
he  requests  to  come  and  see  him  during  a  time  of  depression : — 

Paulum  quid  lubet  allocutionis 
Maestius  lacrymis  Simonideis. 

Prythee  a  little  talk  for  ease,  for  ease, 
Sad  as  the  lears  of  poor  Simonides. 

17  «  Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly,"  &c. 
"  Hence  with  denial  vain,"  &c. 

The  first  of  these  lines  has  a  poor  prosaic  effect,  like  one  of 
the  inane  mixtures  of  familiarity  and  assumed  importance  in  the 
"  Pindaric"  writers  of  the  age.  And  "  hence  with  denial  vain" 
is  a  very  unnecessary  piece  of  harshness  towards  the  poor 
Muses,  who  surely  were  not  disposed  to  ill-treat  the  young 
poet. 

18  «  Clos'd  o'er  the  head,"  &c.— The  very  best  image  of  drowning 
he  could  have  chosen,  especially  during  calm  weather,  both  as 
regards  sufferer  and  spectator.  The  combined  sensations  of 
darkness,  of  liquid  enclosure,  and  of  the  final  interposition  of  a 
heap  of  waters  between  life  and  the  light  of  day,  are  those 
which  most  absorb  the  faculties  of  a  drowning  person.  Haud 
irisuhmersus  loquor. 

19  «  J\ror  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream." — The  river 
Dee,  in  Spenser's  and  Drayton's  poetry,  and  old  British  history, 
is  celebrated  for  its  ominous  character  and  its  magicians. 


MILTON.  197 


20  "  Sanguine  flow'r  inscribed  with  wo."" — The  ancient  poetical 
hyacinth,  proved,  I  think,  by  Professor  Martyn,  in  his  Virgil's 
Georgics,  to  be  the  turk's-cap  lily,  the  only  flower  on  which 
characters  like  the  Greek  exclamation  of  wo,  AI,  AI,  are  to  be 
found.  The  idea  in  Milton  is  from  Moschus's  Elegy  on  the 
Death  of  Bion  :— 

Nui/,  vuKivOe,  \a\si  ra  aa  ypannara,  Kai  nXeov  at  at 
Ba///?aX£  arois  zera'Xoioi. 

Now  more  than  ever  say,  0,  hyacinth  ! 
Ai,  ai ;  and  babble  of  your  written  sorrows. 

21  «  Last  came  and  last  did  go."—'^  This  passage,"  says  Hazlitt, 
**  which  alludes  to  the  clerical  character  of  Lycidas,  has  been 
found  fault  with,  as  combining  the  truths  of  the  Christian 
religion  with  the  fiction  of  the  Heathen  mythology.  I  con- 
ceive there  is  very  little  foundation  for  this  objection,  either 
in  good  reason  or  good  taste.  I  will  not  go  so  far  as  to 
defend  Camoens,  who,  in  his  Lusiad,  makes  Jupiter  send 
Mercury  with  a  dream  to  propagate  the  Catholic  religion ; 
nor  do  I  know  that  it  is  generally  proper  to  introduce  the  two 
things  in  the  same  poem,  though  I  see  no  objection  to  it  here ; 
but  of  this  I  am  quite  sure,  that  there  is  no  inconsistency  or 
natural  repugnance  between  this  poetical  and  religious  faith  in 
the  same  mind.  To  the  understanding,  the  belief  of  the  one  is 
incompatible  with  that  of  the  other,  but,  in  the  imagination,  they 
not  only  may,  but  do  constantly,  co-exist.  I  will  venture  to  go 
farther,  and  maintain  that  every  classical  scholar,  however 
orthodox  a  Christian  he  may  be,  is  an  honest  Heathen  at  heart. 
This  requires  explanation.  Whoever,  then,  attaches  a  reality 
to  any  idea  beyond  the  mere  name,  has,  to  a  certain  extent 
(though  not  an  abstract),  an  habitual  and  practical  belief  in  it. 
Now,  to  any  one  familiar  with  the  names  of  the  personages  of 
the  heathen  mythology,  they  convey  a  positive  identity  beyond 
the  mere  name.  We  refer  them  to  something  out  of  ourselves. 
It  is  only  by  an  effort  of  abstraction  that  we  divest  ourselves  of 
the  idea  of  their  reality  ;  all  our  involuntary  prejudices  are  on 
their  side.     This  is  enough  for  the  poet.     They  impose  on  the 


198  MILTON. 


imagination  by  the  attractions  of  beauty  and  grandeur.  They 
come  down  to  us  in  sculpture  and  in  song.  We  have  the  same 
associations  with  them  as  if  they  had  really  been :  for  the  be- 
lief of  the  fiction  in  ancient  times  has  produced  all  the  same 
effects  as  the  reality  could  have  done.  It  was  a  reality  to  the 
minds  of  the  ancient  Greeks  and  Romans,  and  through  them  it  is 
reflected  to  us." — Lectures  on  the  English  Poets  (Templeman's 
edition),  p.  338. 

22  "  How  well  could  I  have  spared,"  &c — "  He  here  animadverts," 
says  Warton,  "  to  the  endowments  of  the  church,  at  the  same  time 
insinuating  that  they  were  shared  by  those  only  who  sought  the 
emoluments  of  the  sacred  office,  to  the  exclusion  of  a  learned 
and  conscientious  clergy."  An  old  complaint !  Meantime  the 
church  has  continued  mild  and  peaceful.  An  incalculable 
blessing ! 

23  "  Return,  Alpheus,"  &c — How  much  more  sweet  and  Chris- 
tian Paganism  itself  sounds,  after  those  threats  of  religious 
violence  !  The  "  two-handed  engine"  is  supposed  to  mean  the 
axe  preparing  for  poor,  weak,  violent  Laud  !  Milton  was  now 
beginning  to  feel  the  sectarian  influence  of  his  father  3  one, 
unfortunately,  of  a  sullen  and  unpoetical  sort. 

24  *^  Honied  showers." — There  is  an  awkwardness  of  construction 
between  this  and  the  preceding  line  which  hurts  the  beautiful 
idea  oi  ihe  flowers  "sucking  the  honied  showers,"  by  seeming  to 
attribute  the  suction  to  their  "  eyes."  There  might,  indeed,  be 
learned  allowance  for  such  an  ellipsis ;  and  we  hardly  know 
where  to  find  the  proper  noun  substantive  or  predicate  for  the 
verb,  if  it  be  not  so ;  but  the  image  is  terribly  spoilt  by  it. 

25  «  Glowing  violet" — Why  "  glowing  ?"  The  pansy  (heart's- 
ease)  "  freak'd  with  jet"  is  exquisite  ;  equally  true  to  letter  and 
spirit. 

^  *'  The  great  Vision  of  the  guarded  Mount" — This  is  the  Arch- 
angel Michael,  the  guardian  of  seamen,  sitting  on  the  Mount  oif 
the  coast  of  Cornwall  known  by  his  name,  and  looking  towards 
the  coast  of  Gallicia.  It  is  rather  surprising  that  Milton,  with 
his  angelical  tendencies,  did  not  take  the  opportunity  of  saying 
more  of  him.     But  the  line  is  a  grand  one. 


MILTON.  199 


COMUS  THE  SORCERER. 

Thybsis  tells  the  Brothers  of  a  Lady,  that  their  Sister  has  fallen  int9 
the  hands  of  the  Sorcerer  Comus,  dwelling  in  a  wood. 

Within  the  navel  of  this  hideous  wood, 
Immur'd  in  cypress  shades,  a  sorcerer  dwells. 
Of  Bacchus  and  of  Circe  born, — great  Comus, 
Deep  skill'd  in  all  his  mother's  witcheries  ; 
And  here  to  every  thirsty  wanderer        *c  ^ 
By  sly  enticement  gives  his  baneful  cup^"* 
With  many  murmurs  mix'd,  whose  pleasing  poison 
The  visage  quite  transforms  of  him  that  drinks. 
And  the  inglorious  likeness  of  a  beast 
Fixes  instead,  unmoulding  reason's  mintage 
Charactered  in  the  face.     This  have  I  learnt. 
Tending  my  flocks  hard  by  i'  the  hilly  crofts. 
That  brow  this  bottom-glade  :  whence,  night  by  night, 
He  and  his  monstrous  rout  are  heard  to  howl. 
Like  stabled  wolves,  or  tigers  at  their  prey. 
Doing  abhorred  rites  to  Hecate 
In  their  obscured  haunts  of  inmost  bowers ; 
Yet  have  they  many  baits  and  guileful  spells. 
To  inveigle  and  invite  the  unwary  sense 
Of  them  that  pass  unweeting  by  the  way. 
This  evening  late,  by  then  the  chewing  flocks^' 
Had  ta'en  their  supper  on  the  savory  herb 
Of  knot-grass  dew-besprent,  and  were  in  fold, 
I  sat  me  down  to  watch  upon  a  bank 
With  ivy  canopied,  and  interwove 
With  flaunting  honey-suckle,  and  began. 
Wrapt  in  a  pleasing  fit  of  melancholy. 
To  meditate  my  rural  minstrelsy, 
Till  fancy  had  her  fill ;  but,  ere  a  close, 
The  wonted  roar  urns  up  amidst  the  woods» 
And  fill'd  the  air  with  barbarous  dissonance ; 
At  which  I  ceas'd,  and  listen'd  them  awhile. 
Till  an  unusual  stop  of  sudden  silence 
Gave  respite  to  the  drowsy  flighted  steeds. 
That  draw  the  litter  of  close-curtained  Sleep  • 
At  last  a  soft  and  solemn-breathing  sound 
Rose  like  a  stream  of  rich  distill' d  perfumes. 


aOO  MILTON. 


And  stole  upon  the  air,  that  even  Silence 

Was  took  ere  she  was  ware,  and  wished  she  might 

Deny  her  nature,  and  be  never  more 

Still  to  be  so  displaced.     I  was  all  ear. 

And  took  in  strains  that  might  create  a  soul 

Under  the  ribs  of  Death  :  but  0 !  ere  long. 

Too  well  I  did  perceive  it  was  the  voice 

Of  my  most  honor'd  lady,  your  dear  sister. 

Amaz'd  I  stood,  harrow'd  with  grief  and  fear, 

And,  O  poor  hapless  nightingale,  thought  I, 

How  sweet  thou  sing' st,  how  near  the  deadly  snare 

Then  down  the  lawns  I  ran  with  headlong  haste. 

Through  paths  and  turnings  often  trod  by  day ; 

Till,  guided  by  mine  ear,  I  found  the  place, 

Where  that  damn'd  wizard,  hid  in  sly  disguise, 

(For  so  by  certain  signs  I  knew),  had  met 

Already,  ere  my  best  speed  could  prevent. 

The  aidless  innocent  lady,  his  wish'd  prey ; 

Who  gently  ask'd  if  he  had  seen  such  two. 

Supposing  him  some  neighbor  villager. 

Longer  I  durst  not  stay,  but  soon  I  guess'd 

Ye  were  the  two  she  meant ;  with  that  I  sprung 

Into  swift  flight,  till  I  had  found  you  here ; 

But  further  know  I  not. 

Sec.  Br.  0  night,  and  shades ! 

How  are  ye  join'd  with  hell  in  triple  knot 
Against  the  unarmed  weakness  of  one  virgin. 
Alone  and  helpless  !     Is  this  the  confidence 
You  gave  me.  Brother .-' 

Eld.  Br.  Yes,  and  keep  it  still ; 

Lean  on  it  safely ;  not  a  period 
Shall  be  unsaid  for  me  :  against  the  threats 
Of  malice,  or  of  sorcery,  or  that  power 
Which  erring  men  call  chance,  this  I  hold  firm ; — '• 
Virtue  may  be  assail'd,  but  never  hurt, — 
Surpris'd  by  unjust  force,  but  not  enthrall'd ; 
Yea,  even  that,  which  mischief  meant  most  harm. 
Shall  in  the  happy  trial  prove  most  glory ; 
But  evil  on  itself  shall  back  recoil, 
And  mix  no  more  with  goodness  :  when  at  last 
Gathered  like  scum,  and  settled  to  itself. 
It  shall  be  in  eternal  restless  change. 
Self -fed,  and  self- consumed  ;  if  this  fail, 
77ie  pillar' d  firmament  is  rottenness, 
And  earth's  base  built  on  stubble. 


MILTON.  201 


27"  The  chewing  flocks,''  &c — «  The  supper  of  the  sheep,"  saya 
Warton,  "  is  from  a  beautiful  comparison  in  Spenser, — 

As  gentle  shepherd,  in  sweet  eventide 

When  ruddy  Phoebus  gins  to  welk  (decline)  in  west, 

High  on  a  hill,  his  flock  to  viewen  wide, 

Marks  which  do  bite  their  hasty  supper  best." 

Faerie  Queene.,  i.,  a,  23. 

'•Chewing  flocks"  is  good,  but  not  equal  to  "  biting  their  hasty 
supper."  It  is  hardly  dramatical,  too,  in  the  speaker  to  stop  to 
notice  the  sweetness  and  dewiness  of  the  sheep's  grass,  while 
he  had  a  story  to  lell,  and  one  of  agitating  interest  to  his  hearers. 


202  COLERIDGE. 


COLERIDGE, 

BORN,    1793 DIED,    1834. 


Coleridge  lived  in  the  most  extraordinary  and  agitated  period 
of  modern  history  ;  and  to  a  certain  extent  he  was  so  mixed  up 
with  its  controversies,  that  he  was  at  one  time  taken  for  nothing 
but  an  apostate  republican,  and  at  another  for  a  dreaming  theo- 
sophist.  The  truth  is,  that  both  his  politics  and  theosophy  were 
at  the  mercy  of  a  discursive  genius,  intellectually  bold  but 
educationally  timid,  which,  anxious,  or  rather  willing,  to  bring 
conviction  and  speculation  together,  mooting  all  points  as  it 
went,  and  throwing  the  subtlest  glancing  lights  on  many,  ended 
in  satisfying  nobody,  and  concluding  nothing.  Charles  Lamb 
said  of  him,  that  he  had  "  the  art  of  making  the  unintelligible 
appear  intelligible."  He  was  the  finest  dreamer,  the  most 
eloquent  talker,  and  the  most  original  thinker  of  the  day ;  but 
for  want  of  complexional  energy,  did  nothing  with  all  the  vast 
prose  part  of  his  mind  but  help  the  Germans  to  give  a  subtler 
tone  to  criticism,  and  sow  a  few  valuable  seeds  of  thought  in 
minds  worthy  to  receive  them.  Nine-tenths  of  his  theology 
would  apply  equally  well  to  their  own  creeds  in  the  mouths  of 
a  Brahmin  or  a  Mussulman. 

His  poetry  is  another  matter.  It  is  so  beautiful,  and  was  so 
quietly  content  with  its  beauty,  making  no  call  on  the  critics, 
and  receiving  hardly  any  notice,  that  people  are  but  now  begin- 
ning  to  awake  to  a  full  sense  of  its  merits.  Of  pure  poetry, 
strictly  so  called,  that  is  to  say,  consisting  of  nothing  but  its 
essential  self,  without  conventional  and  perishing  helps,  he  was 
the  greatest  master  of  his  time.  If  you  would  see  it  in  a  phial, 
like  a  distillation  of  roses  (taking  it,  I  mean,  at  its  best),  it  would 
be  found  without  a  speck.     The  poet  is  happy  with  so  good  a  gift, 


■'«djife^ 


COLERIDGE.  203 


and  the  reader  is  "  happy  in  his  happiness."  Yet  so  little, 
sometimes,  are  a  man's  contemporaries  and  personal  acquaint- 
ances able  or  disposed  to  estimate  him  properly,  that  while 
Coleridge,  unlike  Shakspeare,  lavished  praises  on  his  poetic 
friends,  he  had  all  the  merit  of  the  generosity  to  himself ;  and 
even  Hazlitt,  owing  perhaps  to  causes  of  political  alienation, 
could  see  nothing  to  admire  in  the  exquisite  poem  of  Christabel, 
but  the  description  of  the  quarrel  between  the  friends  !  After 
speaking,  too,  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  as  the  only  one  of  his  po- 
ems that  he  could  point  out  to  any  one  as  giving  an  adequate 
idea  of  his  great  natural  powers,  he  adds,  "  It  is  high  German, 
however,  and  in  it  he  seems  to  conceive  of  poetry  but  as  a 
drunken  dream,  reckless,  careless,  and  heedless  of  past,  present, 
and  to  come."  This  is  said  pf  a  poem,  with  which  fault  has 
been  found  for  the  exceeding  conscientiousness  of  its  moral !  O, 
ye  critics,  the  best  of  ye,  what  havoc  does  personal  difference 
play  with  your  judgments!  It  was  Mr.  Hazlitt's  only  or  most 
unwarrantable  censure,  or  one  which  friendship  found  hardest 
to  forgive.  But  peace,  and  honor  too,  be  with  his  memory ! 
If  he  was  a  splenetic  and  sometimes  jealous  man,  he  was  a  disin- 
terested politician  and  an  admirable  critic  :  and  lucky  were 
those  whose  natures  gave  them  the  right  and  the  power  to  par- 
don him. 

Coleridge,  though  a  born  poet,  was  in  his  style  and  general 
'  musical  feeling  the  disciple  partly  of  Spenser,  and  partly  of  the 
fine  old  English  ballad- writers  in  the  collection  of  Bishop  Percy. 
But  if  he  could  not  improve  on  them  in  some  things,  how  he  did 
in  others,  especially  in  the  art  of  being  thoroughly  musical ! 
Of  all  our  writers  of  the  briefer  narrative  poetry,  Coleridge  is' 
the  finest  since  Chaucer ;  and  assuredly  he  is  the  sweetest  of  all 
our  poets.  Waller's  music  is  but  a  court-flourish  in  compari- 
son ;  and  though  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Collins,  Gray,  Keats, 
Shelley,  and  others,  have  several  as  sweet  passages,  and  Spenser 
is  in  a  certain  sense  musical  throughout,  yet  no  man  has  writ- 
ten whole  poems,  of  equal  length,  so  perfect  in  the  sentiment  of 
music,  so  varied  with  it,  and  yet  leaving  on  the  ear  so  unbroken 
and  single  an  elFeot. 


204  COLERIDGE. 


A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw  ; 
It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

Arid  on  her  dulcimer  she  play'd, 
Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

That  IS  but  one  note  of  a  music  ever  sweet,  yet  never 
cloying. 

It  ceas'd ;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 
A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 
1  A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 
That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 
Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

The  stanzas  of  the  poem  from  which  this  extract  is  made  ( The 
Ancient  Mariner)  generally  consist  of  four  lines  only  ;  but  see 
how  the  "brook"  has  carried  him  on  with  it  through  the  silence 
of  the  night. 

I  have  said  a  good  deal  of  the  versification  of  Christabel,  in 
the  Essay  prefixed  to  this  volume,  but  I  cannot  help  giving  a 
further  quotation. 

It  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see 
The  lady  Christabel,  when  she 
Was  praying  at  the  old  oak  tree. 
Amid  the  jagged  shadows 

Of  massy  leafless  boughs. 
Kneeling  in  the  moonlight 

To  make  her  gentle  vows  : 
Her  slender  palms  together  press'd, 
Heaving  sometimes  on  her  breast ; 
Her  face  resigned  to  bliss  or  bale — 

Her  face,  O  call  it  fair,  not  pale  !  j. 

And  both  blue  eyes  more  bright  than  clear, 
Each  about  to  have  a  tear. 

All  the  weeping  eyes  of  Guido  were  nothing  to  that.  But  I 
shall  be  quoting  the  whole  poem.  I  wish  I  could  ;  but  I  fear  to 
trespass  upon  the  bookseller's  property.  One  more  passage, 
however,  I  cannot  resist.  The  good  Christabel  had  been  under- 
going a  trance  in  the  arms  of  the  wicked  witch  Geraldine  ; 


COLERIDGE.  205 


A  star  hath  set,  a  star  hath  risen, 

0  Geraldine  !  since  arms  of  thine 
Have  been  the  lovely  lady's  prison. 
0  Geraldine  !  one  hour  was  thine — 

Thou  hast  thy  will !     By  tarn  and  rill 

The  night-birds  all  that  hour  were  still. 


(An  appalling  fancy) 

But  now  they  are  JwW/aw<  anew, 
From  cliff  and  tower  tu-whoo  !  tu-whoo ! 
,*  .  Tu-whoo !  tu-whoo  !  from  wood  and  fell. 

And  see  !  the  lady  Christabel 

(This,  observe,  begins  a  new  paragraph,  with  a  break  in  the 
rhyme) 

V 

.   Gathers  herself  from  out  her  trance ; 
Her  limbs  relax,  her  countenance 
Grows  sad  and  soft ;  the  smooth  thin  lids 
Close  o'er  her  eyes  ;  and  tears  she  sheds — 
Large  tears  that  leave  the  lashes  bright ! 
And  oft  Hie  while  she  seems  to  smile, 
As  infants  at  a  sudden  light. 

Yea,  she  doth  smile,  and  she  doth  weep. 

Like  a  youthful  hermitess 

Beauteous  in  a  wilderness,  ^"    . 

Who  praying  always,  prays  in  sleep. 

And,  if  she  move  unquietly. 

Perchance  't  is  but  the  blood  so  free 

Comes  back  and  tingles  in  her  feet. 

No  doubt  she  hath  a  vision  sweet : 

What  if  her  guardian  spirit 't  were  ? 

What  if  she  knew  her  mother  near  ? 

But  this  she  knows,  in  joys  and  woes. 

The  saints  will  aid,  if  men  will  call. 

For  the  blue  sky  bends  over  all. 

We  see  how  such  a  poet  obtains  his  music.  Such  forms  of 
melody  can  proceed  only  from  the  most  beautiful  inner  spirit  of 
sympathy  and  imagination.  He  sympathizes,  in  his  universality, 
with  antipathy  itself.  If  Regan  or  Goneril  had  been  a  young 
and  handsome  witch  of  the  times  of  chivalry,  and  attuned  her 


205  COLERIDGE. 


violence  to  craft,  or  betrayed  it  in  venomous  looks,  she  could 
not  have  beaten  the  soft- voiced,  appalling  spells,  or  sudden,  snake- 
eyed  glances  of  the  lady  Geraldine, — looks  which  the  innocent 
Christabel,  in  her  fascination,  feels  compelled  to  "  imitate." 

A  snake's  small  eye  blinks  dull  and  shy, 
And  the  lady's  eyes  they  shrank  in  her  head. 
Each  shrank  up  to  a  serpent's  eye ; 
And  with  somewhat  of  malice  and  more  of  dread, 
At  Christabel  she  look'd  askance. 
***** 
The  maid  devoid  of  guile  and  sin 
I  know  not  how,  in  fearful  wise. 
So  deeply  had  she  drunken  in 
That  look,  those  shrunken  serpent  eyes, 
That  all  her  features  were  resign'd 
To  this  sole  image  in  her  mind. 
And  passively  did  imitate 
That  look  of  dull  and  treacherous  hate. 

This  is  as  exqpuisite  in  its  knowledge  of  the  fascinating  ten- 
dencies of  fear  as  it  is  in  its  description.  And  what  can  surpass 
a  line  quoted  already  in  the  Essay  (but  I  mftst  quote  it  again !) 
for  very  perfection  of  grace  and  sentiment  ? — ^the  line  in  the 
passage  where  Christabel  is  going  to  bed,  before  she  is  aware 
that  her  visitor  is  a  witch. 

"    .  ,      Quoth  Christabel,— So  let  it  be ! 

And  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she.  ^         :  f 

Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress,  '  * 

And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness.  y 

Oh  !  it  is  too  kte  now ;  and  habit  and  self-love  blinded  me  at 
the  time,  and  I  did  not  know  (much  as  I  admired  him)  how  great  , 
a  poet  lived  in  that  grove  at  Highgate  ;  or  I  would  have  cultivat- 
ed its  walks  more,  as  I  might  have  done,  and  endeavored  to  return 
him,  with  my  gratitude,  a  small  portion  of  the  delight  his  verses 
have  given  me. 

I  must  add,  that  I  do  not  think  Coleridge's  earlier  poems  at  all 
equal  to  the  rest.  Many,  indeed,  I  do  not  care  to  read  a  second 
time  ;  but  there  are  some  ten  or  a  dozen,  of  which  I  never  tire, 
and  which  will  one  day  make  a  small  and  precious  volume  to 


COLERIDGE.  207 


put  in  the  pockets  of  all  enthusiasts  in  poetry,  and  endure  with 

the  language.     Five  of  these  are  The  Ancient  Mariner .^  Christa- 

hel,  Kuhla  Khauy  Genevieve,  and   Youth  and  Age.     Some,  that 

more  personally  relate  to  the  poet,  will  be  added  for  the  love  of 

him,  not  omitting  the  Visit  of  the  Gods,  from  Schiller,  and  the 

famous  passage  on  the  Heathen  Mythology,  also  from  Schiller. 

A  short  life,  a  portrait,  and  some  other  engravings  perhaps,  will 

complete  the  book,  after  the  good  old  fashion  of  Cooke's  and 

Bell's  editions  of  the  Poets  ;  and  then,  like  the  contents  of  the  Jew 

of  Malta's  casket,  there  will  be 

t  •  . 

Infinite  riches  in  a  little  room. 


LOVE ;  OR,  GENEVIEVE. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights. 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 

Are  all  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 

When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay. 
Beside  the  ruin'd  tower. 

The  moonlight  stealing  o'er  the  scene. 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve ; 

And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy. 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  ! 

She  leant  against  the  armed  man. 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 

She  stood  and  listen'd  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own^ 
My  hope!  my  joy !  my  Genevieve  ■ 

She  loves  me  best  whenever  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 


208  COLERIDGE. 


«>. 


I  play'd  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 

An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush, 

With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace, 

For  well  she  knew  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand ; 

And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  woo'd 
The  lady  of  the  land. 

/  told  her  how  he  piii'd,  and — ah  ! 

The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love. 

Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blu^h. 

With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace. 

And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gaz'd 
Too  fondly  on  her  face  ! 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 

That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  knight. 
And  that  he  cross'd  the  mountain-woods. 

Nor  rested  day  nor  night : 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den. 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 

And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade. 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright  ; 

And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  fend, 
This  miserable  knight! 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did. 
He  leap'd  amid  a  murderous  band, 

And  sav'd  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  lady  of  the  land ! 

And  how  she  wept  and  claspt  his  knees ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 


COLERIDGE.  809 


And  ever  strove  to  expiate 
The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain ; 

And  that  she  nurs'd  him  in  a  cave  ; 
.iLvc  now  his  madness  went  away, 
w  When  on  the  yellow  forest  leaves 

A  dying  man  he  lay. 

His  dying  words — but  when  I  reach'd 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 

My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
THsturVd  her  soul  with  pity. 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 

Had  thrill'd  my  guileless  Genevieve ; 

The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 

The  rich  and  balmy  eve ;  M, 

And  hopes  t  and  fears  that  kindle  hope-. 
An  undistinguishable  throngs 

And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued. 
Subdued  and  cherished  long. 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blush'd  with  love  and  virgin  shame , 

And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream^ 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heav'd — she  stept  aside. 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept 

Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye,     ' 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclos'd  me  in  her  arms, 

She  press'd  me  with  a  meek  embrace : 

And  bending  back  her  head,  look'd  up. 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

*2\Das  partly  love  and  partly  fear. 
And  partly  't  was  a  bashful  art 

That  J  might  rather  feel  than  see. 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calm'd  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm. 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride, 
15 


* 


2xj  COLERIDGE 


And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 
My  own,  my  beauteous  bride  ! 

I  can  hardly  say  a  word  upon  this  poem  for  very  admiration. 
I  must  observe,  however,  that  one  of  the  charms  of  it  consists 
in  the  numerous  repetitions  and  revolvings  of  the  words,  one  on 
the  other,  as  if  taking  delight  in  their  own  beauty. 


^  KUBLA  KilAN. 

SUGGESTED   TO  THE   AUTHOR  BY  A  PASSAGE   IN  PURCHAS's  PHiGRlMAGE. 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khani 

A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree, 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  mariy 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 

So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  v/ere  girdled  round ; 
And  here  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills. 
Where  blossom'd  many  an  incense-beai^ing  tree ; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills. 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  ohi  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 

Down  the  green  hill,  athwart  a  cedarn  cover  / 

A  savage  place!  as  holy  and  enchanted 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover  ! 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething. 

As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 

A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forc'd ; 

Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail. 

Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thrasher's  flail : 

And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks,  at  once  and  ever. 

It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 

Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion, 

Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran. 

Then  reach'd  the  caverns  measureless  to  man. 

And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean : 


COLERIDGE.  21  i 


And  'mid  this  tumult  Kuhla  heard  from  far 

Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war.^ 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves ; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 

It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device,  .« 

A  sunny  pleasure-dome,  with  caves  of  ice  ! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw : 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid. 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  play'd. 

Singing  of  Mount  Ahora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song,  ^ 

To  such  a  deep  delight 't  would  win  me,  » 

That  with  music  loud  and  long, 

I  would  build  that  dome  in  air. 

That  sunny  dome  !  those  caves  of  ice  ! 

And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there. 

And  all  should  cry.  Beware  !  Beware  ! 

His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair  ! 

Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice. 

And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread. 

For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed. 

And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

1 "  In  Xanadu,"— I  think  I  recollect  a  variation  of  this  stanza, 
as  follows: — 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 

A  stately  pleasure-house  ordain. 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man, 

Down  to  a  sunless  main. 

The  nice-eared  poet  probably  thought  there  were  too  many 
ns  in  these  rhymes ;  and  man  and  main  are  certainly  not  the  best 
neighbors :  yet  there  is  such  an  open,  sounding,  and  stately  into- 
nation in  the  words  pleasure-house  ordain^  and  it  is  so  superior 
to  pleasure-dome  decree,  that  I  am  not  sure  I  would  not  give  up 
the  correctness  of  the  other  terminations  to  retain  it. 

But  what  a  grand  flood  is  this,  flowing  down  through  measure- 
less caverns  to  a  sea  without  a  sun !   I  know  no  other  sea  equal 


fia  COLERIDGE. 


to  it,  except  Keats's,  in  his  Ode  to  a  Nightingale ;  and  none  can 
surpass  that. 

»  «  Ancestral  voices  prophesying  i^>ar."— Was  ever  anything  mor« 
wild,  and  remote,  and  majestic,  than  this  fiction  of  the  "  ances- 
tral voices  ?"  Methinks  I  hear  them,  out  of  the  blackness  of 
the  past. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

Verse,  a  breeze  'mid  blossoms  straying. 
Where  hope  clung  feeding  like  a  bee — 

Both  were  mine  !     Life  went  a-Maying 

With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 
When  I  was  young  / 

When  I  was  young  ?    Ah,  woful  when! 
Ah,  for  the  change  'twixt  now  and  then ! 
This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands. 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
O'er  aery  cliffs  and  glittering  sands. 
How  lightly  then  it  flash' d  along  ! — 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore. 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide. 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar. 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide ! 
Naught  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather, 
When  youth  and  I  lived  in  't  together. 

Flowers  are  lovely  ;  Love  is  flower-like  : 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree  ; 
O  the  joys  that  came  down  shower-like, 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty,       ^ 
Ere  I  was  old  ! 

Ere  I  was  old  7  Ah,  woful  ere  I 
Which  tells  me  Youth's  no  longer  here ! 
0  Youth !  for  years  so  many  and  sweet, 
'T  is  known,  that  thou  and  1  were  one  ; 
I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  deceit — 
It  cannot  be  that  thou  art  gone  ! 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  toll'd. 


COLERIDGE.  21S 


And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold  ! 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on. 
To  make  believe  that  thou  art  gone  ? 
/  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips. 
This  drooping  gait,  this  altered  size; 
But  springtide  blossoms  on  thy  lips. 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes  ! 
Life  is  but  thought ;  so  think  I  will. 
That  Youth  and  I  are  house-mates  still. 

This  is  one  of  the  most  perfect  poems,  for  style,  feeling,  and 
everything,  that  ever  were  written. 


THE  HEATHEN  DIVINITIES  MERGED  INTO  ASTROLOGY. 

FROM  THE   TRANSLATION    OF   SCHILLER's   PICOOLOMINI. 

— Fable  is  Love's  world,  his  home,  his  birthplace : 

Delightedly  dwells  he  'mong  fays  and  talismans. 

And  spirits  ;  and  delightedly  believes 

Divinities,  being  himself  divine. 

The  intelligible  forms  of  ancient  poets. 

The  fair  humanities  of  old  religion, 

The  power,  the  beauty,  and  the  majesty. 

That  had  her  haunts  in  dale,  or  piny  mountain, 

Or  forest  by  slow  stream,  or  pebbly  spring. 

Or  chasms  and  wat'ry  depths ;  all  these  have  vanish'd , 

They  live  no  longer  in  the  faith  of  reason ; 

But  still  the  heart  doth  need  a  language  ;  still 

Doth  the  old  instinct  bring  back  the  old  names ; 

And  to  yon  starry  world  they  now  are  gone. 

Spirits  or  gods,  that  used  to  share  this  earth 

With  man  a^  with  their  friend  ;  and  to  the  lover 

Yonder  they  move  ;  from  yonder  visible  sky 

Shoot  influence  down :  and  even  at  this  day 

*Tis  Jupiter  who  brings  whatever  is  great. 

And  Venus  who  brings  everything  that^sfaw. 


214  COLERIDGE. 


WORK  WITHOUT  HOPE. 

LINES   COMPOSED   21sT   FEBRUARY,  1827. 

All  Nature  seems  at  work.     Stags  leave  their  lair — 
The  bees  are  stirring — ^birds  are  on  the  wing — 

A7id  Winter,  slumbering  in  the  open  air. 

Wears  on  his  smiling  face  a  dream  of  Spring  ! 

And  I,  the  while,  the  sole  unbusy  thing. 

Nor  honey  make,  nor  pair,  nor  build,  nor  sing. 

Yet  well  I  ken  the  banks  where  amaranths  blow. 

Have  traced  the  fount  whence  streams  of  nectar  flow. 

Bloom,  0  ye  amaranths  !  bloom  for  whom  ye  may ; 

For  me  ye  bloom  not !     Glide,  rich  streams,  away  ! 

With  lips  unbrighten'd,  wreathless  brow,  I  stroll : 

And  would  you  learn  the  spells  that  drowse  my  soul ! 

Work  without  hope  draws  nectar  in  a  sieve. 

And  hope  without  an  object  cannot  live. 

I  insert  this  poem  on  account  of  the  exquisite  imaginative 
picture  in  the  third  and  fourth  lines,  and  the  terseness  and  melo- 
dy of  the  whole.  Here  we  have  a  specimen  of  a  perfect  style, — 
unsuperfluous,  straightforward,  suggestive,  impulsive,  and  se- 
rene. But  how  the  writer  of  such  verses  could  talk  of  "  work 
without  hope,"  I  cannot  say.  What  work  had  he  better  to  do 
than  to  write  more  ?  and  what  hope  but  to  write  more  still,  and 
delight  himself  and  the  world  ?  But  the  truth  is,  his  mind  was 
too  active  and  self-involved  to  need  the  diversion  of  work ;  and 
his  body,  the  case  that  contained  it,  too  sluggish  with  sedentary 
living  to  like  it ;  and  so  he  persuaded  himself  that  if  his  writ- 
ings did  not  sell,  they  were  of  no  use.  Are  we  to  disrespect 
these  self-delusions  in  such  a  man  ?  No ;  but  to  draw  from  them 
salutary  cautions  for  ourselves, — his  inferiors. 


SHELLEY.  215 


SHELLEY, 

BORIC,    1792,— DIED,   1822. 


Among  the  many  reasons  which  his  friends  had  to  deplore  the 
premature  death  of  this  splendid  poet  and  noble-hearted  man, 
the  greatest  was  his  not  being  able  to  repeat,  to  a  more  attentive 
public,  his  own  protest,  not  only  against  some  of  his  earlier 
effusions  (which  he  did  in  the  newspapers),  but  against  all  which 
he  had  written  in  a  wailing  and  angry,  instead  of  an  invaria- 
bly calm,  lovmg,  and  therefore  thoroughly  helping  spirit.  His 
works,  in  justice  to  himself,  require  either  to  be  winnowed  from 
what  he  disliked,  or  to  be  read  with  the  remembrance  of  that 
dislike.  He  had  sensibility  almost  unique,  seemingly  fitter  for  a 
planet  of  a  different  sort,  or  in  more  final  condition,  than  ours  : 
he  has  said  of  himself, — so  delicate  was  his  organization, — that 
he  could 

"  Hardly  bear 
The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour  ;" 

and  the  impatience  which  he  vented  for  some  years  against  that 
rough  working  towards  good,  called  evil,  and  which  he  carried 
out  into  conduct  too  hasty,  subjected  one  of  the  most  naturally 
pious  of  men  to  charges  which  hurt  his  name,  and  thwarted  his 
philanthropy.  Had  he  lived,  he  would  have  done  away  all 
mistake  on  these  points,  and  made  everybody  know  him  for 
what  he  was, — a  man  idolized  by  his  friends, — studious,  tempe- 
rate, of  the  gentlest  life  and  conversation,  and  willing  to  have 
died  to  do  the  world  a  service.  For  my  part,  I  never  can  men- 
tion his  name  without  a  transport  of  love  and  gratitude.  I 
rejoice  to  have  partaken  of  his  cares,  and  to  be  both  suffering 
and  benefiting  from  him  at  this  moment ;  and  whenever  I  think 
of  a  future  state,  and  of  the  great  and  good  Spirit  that  must 


216  SHELLEY. 

pervade  it,  one  of  the  first  faces  I  humbly  hope  to  see  there,  is 
that  of  the  kind  and  impassioned  man,  whose  intercourse  conferred 
on  me  the  title  of  the  Friend  of  Shelley. 

The  finest  poetry  of  Shelley  is  so  mixed  up  with  moral  and  po- 
litical speculation,  that  I  found  it  impossible  to  give  more  than  the 
following  extracts,  in  accordance  with  the  purely  poetical  de- 
sign of  the  present  volume.  Of  the  poetry  of  reflection  and  tra- 
gic pathos,  he  has  abundance  ;  but  even  such  fanciful  produc- 
tions as  the  Sensitive  Plant  and  the  Witch  of  Atlas  are  full  of 
metaphysics,  and  would  require  a  commentary  of  explanation. 
The  short  pieces  and  passages,  however,  before  us,  are  so  beau- 
tiful, that  they  may  well  stand  as  the  representatives  of  the  whole 
powers  of  his  mind  in  the  region  of  pure  poetry.  In  sweetness 
(and  not  even  there  in  passages)  the  Ode  to  the  Skylark  is  infe- 
rior only  to  Coleridge, — in  rapturous  passion  to  no  man.  It  is 
like  the  bird  it  sings, — enthusiastic,  enchanting,  profuse,  contin- 
uous, and  alone, — small,  but  filling  the  heavens.  •  One  of  the 
triumphs  of  poetry  is  to  associate  its  remembrance  with  the  beau- 
ties of  nature.  There  are  probably  no  lovers  of  Homer  and 
Shakspeare,  who,  when  looking  at  the  moon,  do  not  often  call  to 
mind  the  descriptions  in  the  eighth  book  of  the  Iliad  and  the  fifth 
act  of  the  Merchant  of  Venice.  The  nightingale  (in  England) 
may  be  said  to  have  belonged  exclusively  to  Milton  (see  page 
178),  till  a  dying  young  poet  of  our  own  day  partook  of  the 
honor  by  the  production  of  his  exquisite  Ode  :  and  notwithstand- 
ing Shakspeare*s  lark  singing  "  at  heaven's  gate,"  the  longer 
effusion  of  Shelley  will  be  identified  with  thoughts  of  the  bird 
hereafter,  in  the  minds  of  all  who  are  susceptible  of  its  beauty. 
What  a  pity  he  did  not  live  to  produce  a  hundred  such ;  or  to 
mingle  briefer  lyrics,  as  beautiful  as  Shakspeare's,  with  trage- 
dies which  Shakspeare  himself  might  have  welcomed  !  for  as- 
suredly, had  he  lived,  he  would  have  been  the  greatest  dramatic 
writer  since  the  days  of  Elizabeth,  if  indeed  he  has  not  abun- 
dantly proved  himself  such  in  his  tragedy  of  the  Cenci.  Unfor- 
tunately, in  his  indignation  against  every  conceivable  form  of 
oppression,  he  took  a  subject  for  that  play  too  much  resembling 
one  which  Shakspeare  had  taken  in  his  youth,  and  still  •  more 
unsuitable  to  the  stage  ;  otherwise,  besides  grandeur  and  terror 


SHELLEY.  217 


there  are  things  in  it  lovely  as  heart  can  worship ;  and  the  au- 
thor showed  himself  able  to  draw  both  men  and  women,  whose 
names  would  have  been  "  familiar  in  our  mouths  as  household 
words."  The  utmost  might  of  gentleness,  and  of  the  sweet 
habitudes  of  domestic  affection,  was  never  more  balmily  im- 
pressed through  the  tears  of  the  reader,  than  in  the  unique  and 
divine  close  of  that  dreadful  tragedy.  Its  loveliness,  being  that 
of  the  highest  reason,  is  superior  to  the  madness  of  all  the  crime 
that  has  preceded  it,  and  leaves  nature  in  a  state  of  reconcile- 
ment with  her  ordinary  course.  The  daughter,  who  is  going 
forth  with  her  mother  to  execution,  utters  these  final  words  : — 

Give  yourself  no  unnecessary  pain. 
My  dear  Lord  Cardinal.     Here,  mother,  tie 
'  My  girdly  for  me,  and  bind  up  this  hair 

In  any  simple  knot.     Ay,  that  does  well ; 
And  yours,  I  see  is  coming  down.     How  often 
Have  we  done  this  for  one  another  !  now 
We  shall  not  do  it  any  more.     My  Lord, 
We  are  quite  ready.     Well, — '^  is  very  well. 

The  force  of  simplicity  and  moral  sweetness  cannot  go  fur- 
ther than  this.  But  in  general,  if  Coleridge  is  the  sweetest  of 
our  poets,  Shelley  is  at  once  the  most  ethereal  and  most  gor- 
geous ;  the  one  who  has  clothed  his  thoughts  in  draperies  of  the 
most  evanescent  and  most  magnificent  words  and  imagery.  Not 
Milton  himself  is  more  learned  in  Grecisms,  or  nicer  in  etymolo- 
gical propriety ;  and  nobody,  throughout,  has  a  style  so  Orphic 
and  primaeval.  His  poetry  is  as  full  of  mountains,  seas,  and  skies, 
of  light,  and  darkness,  and  the  seasons,  and  all  the  elements  of 
our  being,  as  if  Nature  herself  had  written  it,  with  the  creation 
and  its  hopes  newly  cast  around  her ;  not,  it  must  be  confessed, 
without  too  indiscriminate  a  mixture  of  great  and  small,  and  a 
want  of  sufficient  shade, — a  certain  chaotic  brilliancy,  "  darK 
with  excess  of  light."  Shelley  (in  the  verses  to  a  Lady  with  a 
Guitar)  might  well  call  himself  Ariel.  All  the  more  enjoying 
part  of  his  poetry  is  Ariel, — the  "  delicate"  yet  powerful  "  spi- 
rit," jealous  of  restraint,  yet  able  to  serve ;  living  in  the  ele- 
ments and  the  flowers  ;  treading  the  "  ooze  of  the  salt  deep,"  and 
running  "  on  the  sharp  wind  of  the  north;"  feeling  for  creatures 


218  SHELLEY. 


unlike  himself;  "  flaming  amazement"  on  them  too,  and  singing 
exquisitest  songs.  Alas !  and  he  suffered  for  years,  as  Ariel 
did  in  the  cloven  pine  :  but  now  he  is  out  of  it,  and  serving  the 
purposes  of  Beneficence  with  a  calmness  befitting  his  knowledge 
and  his  love. 


TO  A  SKYLARK. 

I. 
Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart, 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art.» 

II 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest. 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire  ! 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing,  still  dost  soar :  and  soaring,  ever  singest 


In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 
Thou  dost  float  and  run  ; 
Like  an  embodied  joy,  whose  race  has  just  begun 

IV.  ^ 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  round  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 

In  the  broad  day-light 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

▼. 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear. 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 


SHELLEY.  219 


All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 


What  thou  art  we  know  not. 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody 


Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought. 
Singing  hymns  unbidden. 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not. 


Like  a  high-born  maiden^ 

In  a  palace  tower. 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  mtcsic  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower. 


Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew. 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the  view. 


Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves. 
By  warm  winds  deflowered 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged  thieve 


Sound  of  vernal  showers 
On  the  twinkling  grass. 


820  SHELLEY. 


Rain- awakened  flowers. 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyousy  and  deary  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass 


Teach  me,  sprite  or  bird. 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine : 
1  iftve  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

XVT. 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chaunt, 
Match'd  with  thine  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 


What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  7 
TVhat  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  7 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  7 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  7  What  ignorance  of  pain  7 


With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance  ^tjk 

Never  came  near  thee  :  «^W 

Thou  lovest ;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

XVII.  * 

Waking  or  asleep. 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream. 
Or  how  could  thy  note  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 

XVIII. 

We  look  before  and  after. 

And  pine  for  what  is  not ; 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught : 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  which  tell  of  saddest  thought. 


SHELLEY.  221 


Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate  and  pride  and  fear ; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 


Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound. 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found. 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground!^ 


Teach  me  half  the  gladness. 

That  thy  brain  must  know; 
Such  harmonious  madness 
^  From  my  lips  would  flow. 

The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now 

"  In  the  spring  of  1820,"  says  Mrs.  Shelley,  "  we  spent  a  wees. 
or  two  near  Leghorn,  borrowing  the  house  of  some  friends,  who 
were  absent  on  a  journey  to  England.  It  was  on  a  beautiful 
summer  evening,  while  wandering  among  the  lanes  where  myrtle 
hedges  were  the  bowers  of  the  fire-flies,  that  we  heard  the  carolling 
of  the  skylark,  which  inspired  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  his  po- 
ems."—Moxon's  edition  of  1840,  p.  278. 

Shelley  chose  the  measure  of  this  poem  with  great  felicity. 
The  earnest  hurry  of  the  four  short  lines,  followed  by  the  long 
effusiveness  of  the  Alexandrine,  expresses  the  eagerness  and 
continuity  of  the  lark.  There  is  a  luxury  of  the  latter  kind  in 
Shakspeare's  song,  produced  by  the  reduplication  of  the 
rhymes : — 

Hark !  hark !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chalic'd  flowers  that  lies  : 
And  winking  mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  tlieir  golden  eyes  : 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin. 

My  lady  sweet,  arise. 


222  SHELLEY. 


"  Chalic'd  flowers  that  lies"  is  an  ungrammatical  license  in 
use  with  the  most  scholarly  writers  of  the  time  ;  and,  to  say  the 
truth,  it  was  a  slovenly  one  ;  though  there  is  all  the  difference 
in  the  world  between  the  license  of  power  and  that  of  poverty. 

1  ^*  In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art." — During  the  preva- 
lence of  the  unimaginative  and  unmusical  poetry  of  the  last  cen- 
tury, it  was  thought  an  Alexandrine  should  always  be  cut  in 
halves,  for  the  greater  sweetness ;  that  is  to  say,  monotony. 
The  truth  is,  the  pause  may  be  thrown  anywhere,  or  even  en- 
tirely omitted,  as  in  the  unhesitating  and  characteristic  instance 
before  us.  See  also  the  eighth  stanza.  The  Alexandrines 
throughout  the  poem  evince  the  nicest  musical  feeling. 

2  Like  a  high-horn  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower.  , 

Mark  the  accents  on  the  word  "  love-laden,"  so  beautifully 
carrying  on  the  stress  into  the  next  line — 

Soothing  her  Ibve-laden 
Sbul  in  secret  hour. 

The  music  of  the  whole  stanza  is  of  the  loveliest  sweetness ;  of 
energy  in  the  midst  of  softness ;  of  dulcitude  and  variety.  Not 
a  sound  of  a  vowel  in  the  quatrain  resembles  that  of  another, 
except  in  the  rhymes ;  while  the  very  sameness  or  repetition  of 
the  sounds  in  the  Alexandrine  intimates  the  revolvement  and 
continuity  of  the  music  which  the  lady  is  playing.  Observe, 
for  instance  (for  nothing  is  too  minute  to  dwell  upon  in  such 
beauty),  the  contrast  of  thei  and  o  in  "high-born;"  the  diffe- 
rence of  the  a  in  "  maiden"  from  that  in  "  palace ;"  the  strong 
opposition  of  maiden  to  tower  (making  the  rhyme  more  vigorous 
in  proportion  to  the  general  softness) ;  then  the  new  differences 
in  soothing,  Zove-laden,  soul,  and  secret,  all  diverse  from  ®ne 
another,  and  from  the  whole  strain ;  and  finally,  the  strain  it- 
self, winding  up  in  the  Alexandrine  with  a  cadence  of  particular 
repetitions,  which  constitutes  nevertheless  a  new  difference  on 
that  account,  and  by  the  prolongation  of  the  tone. 


SHELLEY.  223 


"  It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat 
Where  love  is  throned." 

There  is  another  passage  of  Shakspeare  which  it  more  particu- 
larly calls  to  mind  ; — ^the 

Ditties  highly  penn*d, 
Sung  by  a  fair  queen  in  a  summer  bower. 
With  ravishing  division  to  her  lute. 

But  as  Shakspeare  was  not  writing  lyrically  in  this  passage, 
nor  desirous  to  fill  it  with  so  much  love  and  sentiment,  it  is  no 
irreverence  to  say  that  the  modern  excels  it.  The  music  is  car- 
ried on  into  the  first  two  lines  of  the  next  stanza : — 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 
In  a  dell  of  dew ; 

a  melody  as  happy  in  its  alliteration  as  in  what  may  be  termed 
its  counterpoint.  And  the  coloring  of  this  stanza  is  as  beautiful 
as  the  music. 

3 "  Thou  scornerofthe  ground."— h^  most  noble  and  emphatic  close 
of  the  stanza.  Not  that  the  lark,  in  any  vulgar  sense  of  the 
word,  "  scorns"  the  ground,  for  he  dwells  upon  it :  but  that,  like 
the  poet,  nobody  can  take  leave  of  common-places  with  more 
heavenly  triumph. 


A  GARISH  DAY. 

(said  by  a  potent  ruffian.) 

The  all-beholding  sun  yet  shines ;  I  hear 

A  busy  stir  of  men  about  the  streets  ; 

I  see  the  bright  sky  tlirough  the  window-panes ; 

It  is  a  garish,  broad,  and  peering  day ; 

Loudy  light,  suspicious,  full  of  eyes  and  ears  ; 

And  every  little  corner,  nook,  and  hole. 

Is  penetrated  with  the  insolent  light. 

Come,  darkness ! 


324  SHELLEY. 


CONTEMPLATION  OF  VIOLENCE. 

(by  a  man  not  bad.) 

Spare  me  now. 
I  am  as  one  lost  in  a  midnight  wood. 
Who  dares  not  ask  some  harmless  passenger 
The  path  across  the  wilderness,  lest  he. 
As  my  thoughts  are,  should  be  a  murderer 


A  ROCK  AND  A  CHASM. 

I  remember. 
Two  miles  on  this  side  of  the  fort,  the  road 
Crosses  a  deep  ravine  :  't  is  rough  and  narrow* 
And  winds  with  short  turns  down  the  precipice ; 
^.^nd  in  its  depth  there  is  a  mighty  rock, 
"Wirich  has,  from  unimaginable  years. 
Sustain' d  itself  with  terror  and  with  toil 
Over  a  gulf,  and  with  the  agony 
With  which  it  clings  seems  slowly  coming  down  ; 
Even  as  a  wretched  soul,  hour  after  hour. 
Clings  to  the  mass  of  life  ;  yet  clinging,  leans. 
And,  leaning,  makes  more  dark  the  dread  abyss 
In  which  it  fears  to  fall.     Beneath  this  crag. 
Huge  as  despair,  as  if  in  weariness, 
The  melancholy  mountain  yawns.     Below 
You  hear,  but  see  not,  an  impetuous  torrent 
Raging  among  the  caverns :  and  a  bridge 
Crosses  the  chasm ;  and  high  above  these  grow. 
With  intersecting  trunks,  from  crag  to  crag. 
Cedars,  and  yews,  and  pines ;  whose  tangled  hair 
Is  matted  in  one  solid  roof  of  shadt 
By  the  dark  ivy's  twine.     At  noon-day  here 
*  Tis  twilight,  and  at  sunset  blackest  night. 


SHELLEY.  225 


LOVELINESS  INEXPRESSIBLE. 

Sweet  lamp  !  my  moth-like  muse  has  burnt  its  wingg ; 

Or,  like  a  dying  swan  who  soars  and  sings. 

Young  Love  should  teach  Time  in  his  own  grey  style 

All  that  thou  art.     Art  thou  not  void  of  guile  ? 

A  lovely  soul  form'd  to  be  blest  and  bless  ? 

A  well  of  seal'd  and  secret  happiness. 

Whose  waters  like  blithe  light  and  music  arCy 

Vanquishing  dissonance  and  gloom,  7 — a  star 

Which  moves  not  in  the  moving  heavens^  alone  7 

A  smile  amid  dark  frowns  } — a  gentle  tone 

Amid  rude  voices  ? — a  beloved  sight  ? 

A  Solitude^  a  Refuge,  a  Delight  ? 

A  lute,  which  those  whom  love  has  taught  to  play^ 

Make  music  on,  to  soothe  the  roughest  day. 

And  lull  fond  grief  asleep  ? — a  buried  treasure  ? 

A  cradle  of  young  thoughts  of  wingless  pleasure  ? 

A  violet-shrouded  grave  of  wo  1    I  measure 

The  world  of  fancies,  seeking  one  like  thee, 

And  find — alas  !  mine  own  infirmity. 


EXISTENCE  IN  SPACE. 

Lifet  like  a  dome  of  many-colored  glass,      '^^ 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  eternity. 


DEVOTEDNESS  UNREQUIRING. 

One  word  is  too  oftenprofaned 

For  me  to  profane  it ; 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it.  • 

One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
16 


226  SHELLEY. 

And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 
Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love ; 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above. 

And  the  Heaven's  reject  not  ? 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow ; 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

FYom  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow. 


TO  A  LADY  WITH  A  GUITAR. 

Ariel  to  Miranda : — Take 
This  slave  of  music,  for  the  sake 
Of  him  who  is  the  slave  of  thee ; 
And  teach  it  all  the  harmony 
In  which  thou  canst,  and  only  thou. 
Make  the  delighted  spirit  glow, 
Till  joy  denies  itself  again, 
And,  too  intense,  is  turned  to  pain. 
For  by  permission  and  command 
Of  thine  own  Prince  Ferdinand, 
Poor  Ariel  sends  this  silent  token 
Of  more  than  ever  can  be  spoken  : 
Your  guadian  spirit,    Ariel,  who 
"•*!  -  iL.    From  life  to  life  must  still  pursue 
Your  happiness,  for  thus  alone 
Can  Ariel  ever  find  his  own  : 
From  Prospero's  enchanted  cell. 
As  the  mighty  verses  tell, 
To  the  throne  of  Naples  he 
Lit  you  o'er  the  trackless  sea. 
Flitting  on,  your  prow  before. 
Like  a  living  meteor : 
When  you  die,  the  silent  moon 
In  her  interlunar  swoon. 
Is  not  sadder  in  her  cell 
•     Than  deserted  Ariel : 

When  you  live  again  on  earth, 
Like  an  unseen  star  of  birth. 


■^ff^': 


SHELLEY.  227 

Ariel  guides  you  o'er  the  sea     ».  .    -    p 

Of  life  from  your  nativity. 

Many  changes  have  been  run. 

Since  Ferdinand  and  you  begun 

Your  course  of  love,  and  Ariel  still 

Has  track'd  your  steps  and  serv'd  your  wilL 

Now  in  humbler,  happier  lot. 

This  is  all  remember  d  not; 

And  now,  alas  !  the  poor  sprite  is 

Imprisoned  for  some  fault  of  his 

In  a  body  like  a  grave. 

From  you,  he  only  dares  to  crave. 

For  his  service  and  his  sorrow, 

A  smile  to-day — a  song  to-morrow. 

The  artist  who  this  idol  wrought. 

To  echo  all  harmonious  thought, 

Fell'd  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep 

The  woods  were  in  their  winter  sleep, 

Rock'd  in  that  repose  divine 

On  the  fjoind-swept  Appenine : 

And  dreaming,  some  of  autumn  past. 

And  some  of  spring  approaching  fast. 

And  some  of  April  buck  and  showers. 

And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers. 

And  all  of  love :  and  so  this  tree — 

0  that  such  our  death  may  be  ! — 

Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  no  pain. 

To  live  in  happier  form  again : 

From  which,  beneath  Heaven's  fairest  star. 

The  artist  wrought  this  lov'd  Guitar, 

And  taught  it  justly  to  reply  ^^       •-•*-**»  -^ 

To  all  who  question  skilfully. 

In  language  gentle  as  thine  own ; 

Whispering  in  enamor'd  tone 

Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells. 

And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells ; 

For  it  had  learnt  all  harmonies 

Of  the  plains  and  of  the  skies. 

Of  the  forest  and  the  mountains. 

And  the  many-voicld  fountains. 

The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills. 

The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills,  • 

The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees. 

The  murmuring  of  summer  seas. 

And  pattering  rain,  and  breathing  dew, 


,^y 


SHELLEY. 


And  airs  of  evening  ;  and  it  knew 

That  seldom-heard  mysterious  sound, 

Which,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round,  V 

As  it  floats  through  boundless  day, 

Our  veorld  enkindles  on  its  way : — 
*^  All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 

To  those  who  cannot  question  well 

The  spirit  that  inhabits  it ; 

It  talks  according  to  the  wit 

Of  its  companions :  and  no  more 

Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  hefore^ 

By  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray 

These  secrets  of  an  elder  day. 
,  ,  But,  sweetly  as  its  answers  will 

jfljljl  Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill, 

*'"^'  It  keeps  its  highest,  holiest  tone  ^ 

For  our  beloved  friend  alone. 

This  is  a  CatuUian  melody  of  the  first  water.  The  transform- 
ation of  the  dreaming  wood  of  the  tree  into  a  guitar  was  proba- 
bly suggested  by  CatuUus's  Dedication  of  the  Galley, — a  poem 
with  which  I  know  he  was  conversant,  and  which  was  particu- 
larly calculated  to  please  him  ;  for  it  records  the  consecration 
of  a  favorite  old  sea-boat  to  the  Dioscuri.  The  modern  poet's 
imagination  beats  the  ancient;  but  Catullus  equals  him  in 
graceful  flow  ;  and  there  is  one  very  Shelleian  passage  in  the 
original : — 

Ubi  iste,  post  phaselus,  antea  fuit 
Comata  silva :  nam  Cytorio  in  jugo 
Loquente  saepe  sibilum  edidit  comi. 

For  of  old,  what  now  you  see 

A  galley,  was  a  leafy  tree 

On  the  Cytorian  heights,  and  tiiere 

Talk'd  to  the  wind  with  whistling  hair. 


SHELLEY.  229 


MUSIC,  MEMORY,  AND  LOVE. 


TO 


Music,  when  soft  voices  die,* 
Vibrates  in  the  memory ; 
^  Odors,  when  sweet  violets  sicken^ 

Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken ; 
*  Rose-leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead. 

Are  heap'd  for  the  beloved's  bed ; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gonCy 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 

1  «*  Music,  when  soft  voices  die." — This  song  is  a  great  favorite 
with  musicians :  and  no  wonder.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  never 
wrote  anything  of  the  kind  more  lovely. 


230  KfiATS. 


KEATS, 

BOEN,  1796, — DIED,  1821. 


Keats  was  a  born  poet  of  the  most  poetical  kind.  All  his  feel- 
ings came  to  him  through  a  poetical  medium,  or  were  speedily- 
colored  by  it.  He  enjoyed  a  jest  as  heartily  es  any  one,  and 
sympathized  with  the  lowliest  common-place;  but  the  next 
minute  his  thoughts  were  in  a  garden  of  enchantment,  with 
nymphs,  and  fauns,  and  shapes  of  exalted  humanity ; 

Elysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace. 

It  might  be  said  of  him,  that  he  never  beheld  an  oak-tree  with- 
out seeing  the  Dryad.  His  fame  may  now  forgive  the  critics, 
who  disliked  his  politics,  and  did  not  understand  his  poetry. 
Repeated  editions  of  him  in  England,  France,  and  America, 
attest  its  triumphant  survival  of  all  obloquy  ;  and  there  can  be 
no  doubt  that  he  has  taken  a  permanent  station  among  the  Brit- 
ish Poets,  of  a  very  high,  if  not  thoroughly  mature,  description. 
Keats's  early  poetry,  indeed,  partook  plentifully  of  the  exube- 
rance of  youth ;  and  even  in  most  of  his  later,  his  sensibility, 
sharpened  by  mortal  illness,  tended  to  a  morbid  excess.  His 
region  is  "  a  wilderness  of  sweets,"— ^flowers  of  all  hue,  and 
"weeds of  glorious  feature," — where,  as  he  says,  the  luxuriant 
soil  brings 

The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrowth. 

But  there  also  is  the  "  rain-scented  eglantine,"  and  bushes  of 
May-flowers,  with  bees,  and  myrtle,  and  bay, — and  endless 
paths  into  forests  haunted  with  the  loveliest  as  well  as  the  gentlest 


KEATS.  231 

beings  ;  and  the  gods  live  in  the  distance,  amid  notes  of  majestic 
thunder.  I  do  not  say  that  no  "  surfeit"  is  ever  there ;  but  I  do, 
that  there  is  no  end  to  the  "  nectared  sweets."  In  what  other 
English  poet  (however  superior  to  him  in  other  respects)  are 
you  so  certain  of  never  opening  a  page  without  lighting  upon  the 
loveliest  imagery  and  the  most  eloquent  expressions  ?  Name 
one.  Compare  any  succession  of  their  pages  at  random,  and  see 
if  the  young  poet  is  not  sure  to  present  his  stock  of  beauty ;  crude 
it  may  be,  in  many  instances  ;  too  indiscriminate  in  general ; 
never,  perhaps,  thoroughly  perfect  in  cultivation ;  but  there  it  is, 
exquisite  of  its  kind,  and  filling  envy  with  despair.  He  died  at 
five-and-twenty ;  he  had  not  revised  his  earlier  works,  nor  given 
his  genius  its  last  pruning.  His  Endymion,  in  resolving  to  be 
free  from  all  critical  trammels,  had  no  versification ;  and  his 
last  noble  fragment,  Hyperion,  is  not  faultless, — but  it  is  nearly 
so.  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  betrays  morbidity  only  in  one  in* 
stance  (noticed  in  the  comment).  Even  in  his  earliest  produc- 
tions, which  are  to  be  considered  as  those  of  youth  just  emerging 
from  boyhood,  are  to  be  found  passages  of  as  masculine  a  beauty 
as  ever  were  written.  Witness  the  Sonnet  on  reading  Chap- 
man's  Howier ,—-epical  in  the  splendor  and  dignity  of  its  images, 
and  terminating  with  the  noblest  Greek  simplicity.  Among  his 
finished  productions,  however,  of  any  length,  the  Eve  of  St.  Ag- 
nes still  appears  to  me  the  most  delightful  and  complete  speci- 
men of  his  genius.  It  stands  mid- way  between  his  most  sensi- 
tive ones  (which,  though  of  rare  beauty,  occasionally  sink  into 
feebleness)  and  the  less  generally  characteristic  majesty  of  the 
fragment  of  Hyperion.  Doubtless  his  greatest  poetry  is  to  be 
found  in  Hyperion ;  and  had  he  lived,  there  is  little  doubt  he 
would  have  written  chiefly  in  that  strain ;  rising  superior  to  those 
languishments  of  love  which  made  the  critics  so  angry,  and 
which  they  might  so  easily  have  pardoned  at  his  time  of  life. 
But  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  had  already/bid  most  of  them  adieu, — 
exquisitely  loving  as  it  is.  It  is  young,  but  full-grown  poetry 
of  the  rarest  description;  graceful  as  the  beardless  Apollo; 
glowing  and  gorgeous  with  the  colors  of  romance.  I  have  there- 
fore reprinted  the  wl^ole  of  it  in  the  present  volume,  together 
with  the  comment  alluded  to  in  the  Preface ;  especially  as,  in 


132  KEATS. 


Tiddition  to  felicity  of  treatment,  its  subject  is  in  every  respect  a 
happy  one,  and  helps  to  "  paint"  this  our  bower  of  "  poetry  with 
delight."  Melancholy,  it  is  true,  will  "  break  in"  when  the 
reader  thinks  of  the  early  death  of  such  a  writer ;  but  it  is  one  of 
the  benevolent  provisions  of  nature,  that  all  good  things  tend  to 
pleasure  in  the  recollection ;  when  the  bitterness  of  their  loss  is 
past,  their  own  sweetness  embalms  them. 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever. 

While  writing  this  paragraph,  a  hand-organ  out-of-doors  has 
been  playing  one  of  the  mournfullest  and  loveliest  of  the  airs  of 
Bellini — another  genius  who  died  young.  The  sound  of  music 
always  gives  a  feeling  either  of  triumph  or  tenderness  to  the 
state  of  mind  in  which  it  is  heard :  in  this  instance  it  seemed 
like  one  departed  spirit  come  to  bear  testimony  of  another,  and 
to  say  how  true  indeed  may  be  the  union  of  sorrowful  and  sweet 
recollections. 

Keats  knew  the  youthful  faults  of  his  poetry  as  well  as  any 
man,  as  the  reader  may  see  by  the  preface  to  Endymion,  and 
its  touching  though  manly  acknowledgment  of  them  to  critical 
candor.  I  have  this  moment  read  it  again,  after  a  lapse  of 
years,  and  have  been  astonished  to  think  how  anybody  could 
answer  such  an  appeal  to  the  mercy  of  strength,  with  the  cruelty 
of  weakness.  All  the  good  for  which  Mr.  GifFord  pretended  to 
be  zealous,  he  might  have  effected  with  pain  to  no  one,  and 
glory  to  himself;  and  therefore  all  the  evil  he  mixed  with  it 
was  of  his  own  making.  But  the  secret  at  the  bottom  of  such 
unprovoked  censure  is  exasperated  inferiority.  Young  poets, 
upon  the  whole, — at  least  very  young  poets, — had  better  not 
publish  at  all.  They  are  pretty  sure  to  have  faults ;  and  jeal- 
ousy and  envy  are  sure  to  find  them  out,  and  wreak  upon  them 
their  own  disappointments.  The  critic  is  often  an  unsuccessful 
author,  almost  always  an  inferior  one  to  a  man  of  genius,  and 
possesses  his  sensibility  neither  to  beauty  nor  to  pain.  If  he 
does, — if  by  any  chance  he  is  a  man  of  genius  himself  (and 
such  things  have  been),  sure  and  certain  will  be  his  regret,  some 
day,  for  having  given  pains  which  he  might  have  turned  into 


KEATS.  233 


noble  pleasures ;  and  nothing  will  console  him  but  that  very- 
charity  towards  himself,  the  grace  of  which  can  only  be  secured 
to  us  by  our  having  denied  it  to  no  one. 

Let  the  student  of  poetry  observe,  that  in  all  the  luxury  of 
the  Eve  of  Saint  Agnes  there  is  nothing  of  the  conventional 
craft  of  artificial  writers ;  no  heaping  up  of  words  or  similes  for 
their  own  sakes  or  the  rhyme's  sake  ;  no  gaudy  common-places ; 
no  borrowed  airs  of  earnestness ;  no  tricks  of  inversion ;  no 
substitution  of  reading  or  of  ingenious  thoughts  for  feeling  or 
spontaneity;  no  irrelevancy  or  unfitness  of  any  sort.  All 
flows  out  of  sincerity  and  passion.  The  writer  is  as  much  in 
love  with  the  heroine  as  his  hero  is ;  his  description  of  the 
painted  window,  however  gorgeous,  has  not  an  untrue  or  super- 
fluous word ;  and  the  only  speck  of  a  fault  in  the  whole  poem 
arises  from  an  excess  of  emotion. 


THE  EVE  OF  SAINT  AGNES.^ 


St.  Agnes'  Eve — Ah  !  bitter  chill  it  was : 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold  ;2 
The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold  ; 
Numb  were  the  beadsman's  fingers  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven  without  a  death 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he  saith.* 


His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man. 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees,'  • 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan. 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees  : 
The  sculptur'd  dead  on  each  side  seem'd  to  freeze. 
Imprison' d  in  black,  purgatorial  rails : 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries. 
He  passeth  by ;  and  His  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails* 


234  KEATS. 


Northward  he  tnrneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  music's  golden  tongue 
Flatter' d  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor  :^ 
But  no ;  already  had  his  death-bell  rung : 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung : 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve : 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he,  for  his  soul's  reprieve ; 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners*  sake  to  grieve. 


That  ancient  beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft ; 
And  so  it  chanc'd  (for  many  a  door  was  wide. 
From  hurry  to  and  fro)  soon  up  aloft 
The  silver-snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide ; 
The  level  chambers  ready  with  their  pride. 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests : 
And  carved  angels^  ever  eager-eyed, 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests, 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wise  on  their  breasts. 


At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array. 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 
The  brain,  new  stuff 'd,  in  youth,  with  triumphs  gay 
Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away. 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  lady  there. 
Whose  heart  had  brooded  all  that  wintry  day 
On  love,  and  wing'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care. 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare 


They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes*  Eve, 
Young  virging  might  have  visions  of  delight ; 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honey*  d  middle  of  the  night 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ; 
As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire. 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white : 
Nor  look  behind  or  sideways,  but*require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they  desire. 


KEATS.  235 


Full  of  this  whim  was  youthful  Madeline ; 
The  music,  yearning,  like  a  god  in  pain. 
She  scarcely  heard ;  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by,  she  heeded  not  at  all ;  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tip-toe  amorous  cavalier. 
And  back  retired,  not  cool'd  by  high  disdain. 
But  she  saw  not ;  her  heart  was  otherwhere ; 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the  year. 


She  danc'd  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes. 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short ; 
The  haUow'd  hour  was  near  at  hand :  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels  and  the  throng'd  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger  or  in  sport ; 
*Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn ; 
Hoodvrink'd  with  faery  fancy  ;  all  amort. 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn. 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 


So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire. 
She  linger'd  still.    Meantime  across  the  moors, 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors 
Buttress'd  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours. 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen. 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss ; — in  sooth  such  things  have  been 

X. 

He  ventures  in,  let  no  buzz'd  whisper  tell ; 
All  eyes  be  muflSed,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart.  Love's  feverous  citadel. 
For  him  those  chambers  had  barbarian  hordes. 
Hyaena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords. 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage.    Not  one  breast  aflfords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul. 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  souL 

XI. 

Ah !  happy  chance  !  the  aged  creature  came 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand. 


336  KEATS. 


To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torches'  light, 
Behind  a  hroad  hall  pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland. 
He  startled  her ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face. 
And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand  : 
Saying,  "  Mercy,  Porphyro  !  hie  thee  from  this  place. 
They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood-thirsty  race. 


"  Get  hence !  get  hence  !  there's  dwarfish  Hildebrand, 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land  : 
Then  there 's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  grey  hairs — Alas,  me  !  flit ; 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away." — "  Ah,  gossip  dear. 
We  're  safe  enough ;  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit. 
And  tell  me  how — " — "  Good  Saints  !  not  here  !  not  here  ' 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy  bier  !" 

XIII. 

He  foUow'd  through  a  lowly,  arched  way. 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume  ; 
And  as  she  mutter'd,  "  Well-a-well-a-day  !"  -  ?<* 

He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room^^ 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he ; 
"  Oh,  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see. 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 


"  St.  Agnes !    Ah !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve- 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holidays ; 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve. 
And  be  the  liege  lord  of  all  elves  and  fays. 
To  venture  so :  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  ! — St.  Agnes'  Eve  ! 
God's  help  !  my  lady  fair  the  conjuror  plays 
This  very  night :  good  angels  her  deceive  ! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile ;  I  've  mickle  time  to  grieve 


Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon. 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone. 


KEATS.  237 


Who  keepeth  clos'd  a  wondrous  riddle-book. 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook ; 
But  soon  his  eyes  grow  brilliant,  when  she  told 
liis  lady's  purpose  ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 
Tears,  at  the  tiiought  of  those  enchantments  cold,' 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 


Sudden  a  thought  came,  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot ;  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start. 
"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art ; 
Sweet  lady !  let  her  pray,  and  sleep  and  dream. 
Alone  with  her  good  angels  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.    Go !  go !    I  deem 
Thou  canst  not,  surely,  be  the  same  that  thou  dost  seem.' 


"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints,  I  swear !" 
Quoth  Porphyio;  "  Oh,  may  I  ne'er  find  grace,  '  .' 

When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer. 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace. 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face ! 
Good  Angela,  believe  me,  by  these  tears. 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space. 
Awake  with  horrid  shout  my  foemen's  ears. 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fang'd  than  wolves  and  oears.' 


"  Ah !  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul  ? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  churchyard  thing. 
Whose  passing  bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll ; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening, 
Were  never  miss'd  ?"     Thus  plaining,  doth  she  bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro, 
So  woful  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing. 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  or  weal  or  wo  : 


Which  was  to  lead  him  in  close  secrecy 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied. 


238  KEATS. 

And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride. 
While  legion^ d  fairies  paced  the  coverlet. 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met. 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  demon  all  the  monstrous  debt* 


"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  dame ; 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there, 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night ;  by  the  tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see  :  no  time  to  spare. 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare. 
On  such  a  catering,  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience ;  kneel  in  prayer 
The  while ;  ah  !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed ; 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead  !'* 


So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear ; 
The  lover's  endless  minute  slowly  pass'd. 
The  dame  return'd,  and  whisper'd  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her,  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  husKd  and  chaste. 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleas'd  amain  : 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain 

xin. 

Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade. 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair. 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid. 
Rose,  like  a  mission'd  spirit,  unaware ;      .'         •.  • 
With  silver  taper-light,  and  pious  care     '•  '  »'      •• 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare. 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed ; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove  fray*d  and  fled. 


Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ; 
Its  little  smoke  in  pallid  moonshine  died :  » 
She  clos'd  the  door,  she  panteth  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide ; 
Nor  utter'd  syllable,  or  "  Wo  betide !" 
But  to  her  heart  her  heart  was  volvible. 


KEATS.  239 


Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side : 
Jl9  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die  heart-stifled  in  her  dell. 

XXIV. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arch'd  there  was. 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass. 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device. 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes. 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep  damask' d  vnngs  ; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries. 
And  tvdlight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blush' d  with  blood  of  queens  and  kings.^^ 


Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon,  ^^^ 

And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 

As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon : 

Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands  together  presf. 

And  oh  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst,  ,  ,    ,  „  .     ,  ., 

And  on  her  hair  a  glory  like  a  saint;  /f.'*  '    *^ 

She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest,  » 

Save  unngs  for  heaven : — Porphyro  grew  faint — " 

She  knelt  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint. 


Anon  his  heart  revives  :  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one  ;i2 
Loosens  her  fragrant  boddice  ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees : 
Half  hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed. 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees 
In  fancy  fair  St.  A^es  in  her  bed. 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 


Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest,  '.'  * 

In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex'd  she  lay. 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 
Her  smoothed  limbs,  and  soul,  fatigued  away. 
Flown,  Tike  a  thought,  until  the  morrow  day  ; 
Blissfully  haven' d  both  from  joy  and  pain; 
Clasp' d  like  a  missal,  where  swart  Paynims  pray  ; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain. 
Am  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  a^ain.^ 


240  KEATS. 


StoPn  to  this  paradise  and  so  entranc'd, 

Porphyro  gaz'd  upon  her  empty  dress,  rj^ 

And  listen'd  to  her  breathing  if  it  chanc'd  ■ 

To  wake  unto  a  slumb'rous  tenderness ; 

Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless, 

And  breath'd  himself;  then  from  the  closet  crept, 

JVoiseless  as  fear  in  a  wild  wilderness, 

And  over  the  hush'd  carpet  silent  stent. 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where  lo  !  how  fast  she  slept. 
» 

Hien,  by  the  bedside,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim  silver  twilight, — soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half-anguish'd,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet : —         •  •        i  ' 
O,  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boisf  rous,  midnight,  festive  clarion. 
The  kettle-drum  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone : — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 

XXX. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth  and  lavender'd. 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap  '    * "  ,'\ 

Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd,         ^     '   ' 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd. 
And  lucent  syrups  tinct  with  cinnamon  .'^^ 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd  •/,  v  ■•^.' • '/ 

From  Fez ;  and  spiced  dainties  every  one,       "-.'•'  *'•  *    *'*  * 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedar' d  Lebanon.    -'VI  "^^  '  ***  ' 


These  delicates  he  heap'd  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver ;  sumptuously  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light. 
**  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake  ! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I. thine  eremite. 
Open  thine  eyes  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake. 
Or  I  shall  drowse^  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache. 


xxxu. 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.    Shaded  was  her  dream 


KEATS.  m 


By  the  dusk  curtains ; — ^"twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream  : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam  ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies ; 
It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes ; 
So  mus'd  awhile,  entoil'd  in  w^oofed  fantasies 


Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be. 
He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 
In  Provence  call'd,  "  La  belle  dame  sans  mercy:" 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody; — 
Wherewith  disturb'd  she  utter'd  a  soft  moan : 
He  ceas'd — she  panted  quick — and  suddenly 
Her  blue  afFrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth  sculptured  stone 

XXXIV. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld. 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep  ; 
There  was  a  painful  change  that  nigh  expell'd 
The  blisses  of  her  dream,  so  pure  and  deep. 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep. 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh ; 
While  still  her  gaz6  on  Porphyro  would  keep  ; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye. 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look'd  so  dreamingly 

XIXV. 

"  Ah  Porphyro  !"  said  she,  "  but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  a  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear. 
Made  tunable  with  every  sweetest  vow ; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear ; 
How  chang'dthou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear  !— 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear ; 
Oh  !  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  wo. 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  love,  I  know  not  where  to  go  '* 


Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion' dfar^ 
Jit  these  voluptuous  accents  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flush'd,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
17 


[-^ 


S4&  KEATS. 


Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose  ; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odors  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet.     Meantime  the  frost  wind  blows 
Like  love's  alarum,  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window  panes  :  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath  set. 


'T  is  dark ;  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet : 
"  This  is  no  dream  ;  my  bride,  my  Madeline  !" 
'T  is  dark  :  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat. 
"  No  dream,  alas  !  alas  !  and  wo  is  mine  ; 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  rave  and  pine ; 
Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring ! 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing ; — 
A  dove,  forlorn  and  lost,  with  sick  unpruned  wing.' 


**  My  Madeline,  sweet  dreamer  !  lovely  bride ! 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ? 
Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shap'd,  and  vermeil-dyed  7  >« 
Ah  !  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest, 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest — 
A  famish'd  pilgrim,  saved  by  miracle : 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest. 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 

xxxix. 
"  Hark !  't  is  an  elfin  storm  from  faery  land. 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed. 
Arise, — arise  ! — the  morning  is  at  hand  ; 
The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed; 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  nor  eyes  to  see, — 
Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead  : 
Awake !  arise !  my  love,  and  fearless  be ; 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for  thee." 


She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears. 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps  with  ready  spears. 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found, 


KEATS.  243 


In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound 
Achain-droop'd  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door  ; 
The  arras,  rife  with  horseman,  hawk  and  hound, 
Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  winds'  uproar  ; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. ^^ 

XLI. 

They  glide  like  phantoms  into  the  wide  hall ; 
Like  phantoms  to  the  inner  porch  they  glide. 
Where  lay  the  porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side  ; 
The  watchful  blood-hound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide, 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns : 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide  : 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  foot- worn  st-ones  : 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 


And  they  are  gone  ;  ay,  ages  long  ago, 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  wo, 
And  all  his  warrior  guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coflin-worm, 
Were  long  benightmared.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meagre  face  deform : 
The  beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told. 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 

1  "  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes.'' — St.  Agnes  was  a  Roman  virgin, 
who  suffered  martyrdom  in  the  reign  of  Dioclesian.  Her 
parents,  a  few  days  after  her  decease,  are  said  to  have  had  a 
vision  of  her,  surrounded  by  angels  and  attended  by  a  white 
lamb,  which  afterwards  became  sacred  to  her.  In  the  Catholic 
Church,  formerly,  the  nuns  used  to  bring  a  couple  of  lambs  to 
her  altar  during  mass.  The  superstition  is  (for  I  believe  it  is 
still  to  be  found),  that,  by  taking  certain  measures  of  divination, 
damsels  may  get  a  sight  of  their  future  husbands  in  a  dream. 
The  ordinary  process  seems  to  have  been  by  fasting.  Aubrey 
(as  quoted  in  "Brand's  Popular  Antiquities")  mentions  another, 
which  is,  to  take  a  row  of  pins,  and  pull  them  out  one  by  one, 
saying  a  Paternoster ;  after  which,  upon  going  to  bed,  the  dream 
is  sure  to  ensue.     Brand  quotes  Ben  Jonson : — 


# 


244  KEATS. 


And  on  sweet  St.  Agnes'  night, 
Pleas'd  you  with  the  promis'd  sight, 
Some  of  husbands,  some  of  lovers. 
Which  an  empty  dream  discovers. 

2"  The  owl,  for  all  hU  feathers,  was  a-cold." — Could  he  have  se- 
lected an  image  more  warm  and  comfortable  in  itself,  and, 
therefore,  better  contradicted  by  the  season  ?  We  feel  the 
plump,  feathery  bird,  in  his  nook,  shivering  in  spite  of  his  natu- 
ral household  warmth,  and  staring  out  at  the  strange  weather. 
The  hare  cringing  through  the  chill  grass  is  very  piteous,  and 
the  "silent  flock"  very  patient;  and  how  quiet  and  gentle,  as 
well  as  wintry,  are  all  these  circumstances,  and  fit  to  open  a 
quiet  and  gentle  poem !  The  breath  of  the  pilgrim,  likened  to 
"  pious  incense,"  completes  them,  and  is  a  simile  in  admirable 
*'  keeping,"  as  the  painters  call  it ;  that  is  to  say,  is  thoroughly 
harmonious  with  itself  and  all  that  is  going  on.  The  breath  of 
the  pilgrim  is  visible,  so  is  that  of  a  censer ;  the  censer,  after  its 
fashion,  may  be  said  to  pray ;  and  its  breath,  like  the  pilgrim's, 
ascends  to  heaven.  Young  students  of  poetry  may,  in  this  image 
alone,  see  what  imagination  is,  under  one  of  its  most  poetical  forms, 
and  how  thoroughly  it  "tells."  There  is  no  part  of  it  unfitting. 
It  is  not  applicable  in  one  point,  and  the  reverse  in  another. 

3  "  Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,"  &c — What  a  complete  feel- 
ing of  winter-time  is  in  this  stanza,  together  with  an  intimation 
of  those  Catholic  elegances,  of  which  we  are  to  have  more  in 
the  poem ! 

4  "  To  think  how  they  may  aclie,"  &c — The  germ  of  the  thought, 
or  something  like  it,  is  in  Dante,  where  he  speaks  of  the  figures 
that  perform  the  part  of  sustaining  columns  in  architecture.  Keats 
had  read  Dante  in  Mr.  Cary's  translation,  for  which  he  had  a 
great  respect.  He  began  to  read  him  afterwards  in  Italian, 
which  language  he  was  mastering  with  surprising  quickness. 
A  friend  of  ours  has  a  copy  of  Ariosto  containing  admiring 
marks  of  his  pen.  But  the  same  thought  may  have  struck  one 
poet  as  well  as  another.  Perhaps  there  are  few  that  have  not 
felt  something  like  it  on  seeing  the  figures  upon  tombs.  Here, 
however,  for  the  first  time,  we  believe,  in  English  poetry,  it  is 
expressed,  and  with  what  feeling  and  elegance !     Most  wintry 


KEATS.  2#" 


as  well  as  penitential  is  the  word  "  aching  "  in  "  icy  hoods  and 
mails  ;'*  and  most  felicitous  the  introduction  of  the  Catholic  idea 
in  the  word  "  purgatorial."  The  very  color  of  the  rails  is  made 
to  assume  a  meaning,  and  to  shadow  forth  the  gloom  of  the 
punishment — 

Imprisoned  in  black  purgatorial  rails.    . 

*  «  Flattered  to  tears." — This  "  flattered  "  is  exquisite.  A  true 
poet  is  by  nature  a  metaphysician  ;  far  greater  in  general  than 
metaphysicians  professed.  He  feels  instinctively  what  the  others 
get  at  by  long  searching.  In  this  word  "  flattered  "  is  the  whole 
theory  of  the  secret  of  team's ;  which  are  the  tributes,  more  or 
less  worthy,  of  self-pity  to  self-love.  Whenever  we  shed  tears, 
we  take  pity  on  ourselves ;  and  we  feel,  if  we  do  not  consciously 
say  so,  that  we  deserve  to  have  the  pity  taken.  In  many  cases, 
the  pity  is  just,  and  the  self-love  not  to  he  construed  unhand- 
somely. In  many  others  it  is  the  reverse  ;  and  this  is  the  reason 
why  selfish  people  are  so  often  found  among  the  tear-shedders, 
and  why  they  seem  never  to  shed  them  for  others.  They  ima- 
gine themselves  in  the  situation  of  others,  as  indeed  the  most 
generous  must,  before  they  can  sympathize  ;  but  the  generous 
console  as  well  as  weep.  Selfish  tears  are  niggardly  of  every . 
thing  but  themselves. 

"  Flattered  to  tears."  Yes,  the  poor  old  man  was  moved,  by 
the  sweet  music,  to  think  that  so  sweet  a  thing  was  intended  for 
his  comfort,  as  well  as  for  others.  He  felt  that  the  mysterious 
kindness  of  Heaven  did  not  omit  even  his  poor,  old,  sorry  case, 
in  its  numerous  workings  and  visitations ;  and,  as  he  wished 
to  live  longer,  he  began  to  think  that  his  wish  was  to  be  attended 
to.  He  had  begun  to  think  how  much  he  had  suffered — how 
much  he  had  suffered  wrongly  and  mysteriously — and  how 
much  better  a  man  he  was,  with  all  his  sins,  than  fate  seemed 
to  have  taken  him  for.  Hence  he  found  himself  deserving  of 
tears  and  self-pity,  stnd  he  shed  them,  and  felt  soothed  by  his 
poor,  old,  loving  self.  Not  undeservedly  either ;  for  he  was 
a  painstaking  pilgrim,  aged,  patient,  and  humble,  and  willingly 
suffered  cold  and  toil  for  the  sake  of  something  better  than  he 


246  KEATS. 


could  otherwise  deserve  ;  and  so  the  pity  is  not  exclusively  on 
his  own  side  :  we  pity  him,  too,  and  would  fain  see  him  out  of 
that  cold  chapel,  gathered  into  a  warmer  place  than  the  grave. 
But  it  was  not  to  be.  We  must  therefore  console  ourselves  in 
knowing,  that  this  icy  endurance  of  his  was  the  last,  and  that  he 
soon  found  himself  at  the  sunny  gate  of  heaven. 

«  "  A  little  moonlight  room."— The  poet  does  not  make  his  "  little 
moonlight  room"  comfortable,  observe.  The  high  taste  of  the 
exordium  is  kept  up.  All  is  still  wintry.  There  is  to  be  no  com- 
fort in  the  poem,  but  what  is  given  by  love.  All  else  may  be  left 
to  the  cold  walls. 

7 "  rear*."— He  almost  shed  tears  of  sympathy,  to  think  how 
his  treasure  is  exposed  to  the  cold ;  and  of  delight  and  pride, 
to  think  of  her  sleeping  beauty,  and  her  love  for  himself. 
This  passage,  "  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old,"  is  in  the  high- 
est imaginative  taste,  fusing  together  the  imaginative  and  the 
spiritual,  the  remote  and  the  near.  Madeline  is  asleep  in  her 
bed  ;  but  she  is  also  asleep  in  accordance  with  the  legends  of  the 
season  :  and  therefore  the  bed  becomes  their  lap  as  well  as  sleep's. 
The  poet  does  not  critically  think  of  all  this  ;  he  feels  it  :  and 
thus  should  other  young  poets  draw  upon  the. prominent  points  of 
their  feelings  upon  a  subject,  sucking  the  essence  out  of  them 
into  analogous  words,  instead  of  beating  about  the  bush  for 
thoughts,  and,  perhaps,  getting  clever  ones,  but  not  thoroughly 
pertinent,  not  wanted,  not  the  best.  Such,  at  least,  is  the  diffe- 
rence between  the  truest  poetry  and  the  degrees  beneath  it. 

8  Since  Merlin  paid  his  demon  all  the  monstrous  debt. 

What  he  means  by  Merlin's  "monstrous  debt,"  I  cannot  say. 
Merlin,  the  famous  enchanter,  obtained  King  Arthur  his  inter- 
view with  the  fair  logerne  ;  but  though  the  son  of  a  devU,  and 
conversant  with  the  race,  I  am  aware  of  no  debt  that  he  owed 
them.  Did  Keats  suppose  that  he  had  sold  himself,  like  "  Faus- 
tus?" 

9  Its  little  smoke  in  pallid  moonshine  died. 
This  is  a  verse  in  .he  taste  of  Chaucer,  full  of  minute  grace  and 


KEATS.  247 


truth.  The  smoke  of  the  wax-taper  seems  almost  as  ethereal  and 
fair  as  the  moonlight,  and  both  suit  each  other  and  the  heroine. 
But  what  a  lovely  line  is  the  seventh  about  the  heart, 

Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side  ! 

And  the  nightingale  !  how  touching  the  simile  !  the  heart  a 
"  tongueless  nightingale,"  dying  in  the  bed  of  the  bosom. 
What  thorough  sweetness,  and  perfection  of  lovely  imagery  f 
How  one  delicacy  is  heaped  upon  another  !  But  for  a  burst  of 
richness,  noiseless,  colored,  suddenly  enriching  the  moonlight, 
as  if  a  door  of  heaven  were  opened,  read  the  stanza  that  fol- 
lows. 

'"  A  shielded  scutcheon  hlush^d  with  blood  of  queens  and  kings. 

Could  all  the  pomp  and  graces  of  aristocracy,  with  Titian's 
and  Raphael's  aid  to  boot,  go  beyond  the  rich  religion  of  this 
picture,  with  its  "  twilight  saints,"  and  its  scutcheons,  "  blushing 
with  the  blood  of  queens  ?" 

^^^' Save  wings  for  heaven." — The  lovely  and  innocent  creature, 
thus  praying  under  the  gorgeous  painted  window,  completes  the 
exceeding  and  unique  beauty  of  this  picture, — one  that  will  for 
ever  stand  by  itself  in  poetry,  as  an  addition  to  the  stock.  It 
would  have  struck  a  glow  on  the  face  of  Shakspeare  himself. 
He  might  have  put  Imogen  or  Ophelia  under  such  a  shrine. 
How  proper  as  well  as  pretty  the  heraldic  term  gules,  consider- 
ing the  occasion.  ''  Red"  would  not  have  been  a  fiftieth  part 
as  good.  And  with  what  elegant  luxury  he  touches  the  "  silver 
cross"  with  "  amethyst,"  and  the  fair  human  hand  with  "  rose- 
color,"  the  kin  of  their  carnation  !  The  lover's  growing  "  faint" 
is  one  of  the  few  inequalities  which  are  to  be  found  in  the  latter 
productions  of  this  great  but  young  and  over-sensitive  poet.  He 
had,  at  the  time  of  his  writing  this,  the  seeds  of  a  mortal  illness 
in  him,  and  he  doubtless  wrote  as  he  had  felt,  for  he  was  also 
deeply  in  love  ;  and  extreme  sensibility  struggled  in  him  with 
a  great  understanding. 

12  «  Unclasps  her  warmed  Jewels." — How  true  and  cordial  the 
warmed  jewels,  and  what  matter  of  fact  also,  made  elegant,  in 


348*  KEATS. 


the  rustling  downward  of  the  attire ;  and  the  mixture  of  dress 
and  undress,  and  of  the  dishevelled  hair,  likened  to  a  "  mermaid 
in  sea-weed  !"  But  the  next  stanza  is  perhaps  the  most  ex- 
quisite in  the  poem." 

13  "  As  though  a  rose  had  shut" — Can  the  beautiful  go  beyond 
this  ?  I  never  saw  it.  And  how  the  imagery  rises !  flown  like 
a  thought — blissfully  haven^d — clasp'd  like  a  missal  in  a  land  of 
Pagans  :  that  is  to  say,  where  Christian  prayer-books  must  not 
be  seen,  and  are,  therefore,  doubly  cherished  for  the  danger. 
And  then,  although  nothing  can  surpass  the  preciousness  of  this 
idea,  is  the  idea  of  the  beautiful,  crowning  all — 

Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
Jls  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 

Thus  it  is  that  poetry,  in  its  intense  sympathy  with  creation, 
may  be  said  to  create  anew,  rendering  its  words  more  impres- 
sive than  the  objects  they  speak  of,  and  individually  more  last- 
ing ;  the  spiritual  perpetuity  putting  them  on  a  level  (not  to 
speak  it  profanely)  with  the  fugitive  compound. 

"  "  Lucent  syrups  tinct  with  cinnamon." — Here  is  delicate  modu- 
lation, and  super- refined  epicurean  nicety  ! 

Lucent  syrups  tinct  with  cinnamon ; 

make  us  read  the  line  delicately,  and  at  the  tip-end,  as  it  were, 
of  one's  tongue. 

15  "  Beyond  a  mortal  man." — rMadeline  is  half  awake,  and  Por- 
phyro  reassures  her,  with  loving,  kind  looks,  and  an  affectionate 
embrace. 

^^'^  Heart-shap'd  and  vermeil-dyed." — With  what  a  pretty  wilful 
conceit  the  costume  of  the  poem  is  kept  up  in  this  line  about  the 
shield  !  The  poet  knew  when  to  introduce  apparent  trifles  for- 
bidden to  those  who  are  void  of  real  passion,  and  who,  feeling 
nothing  intensely,  can  intensify  nothing. 

'7 "  Carpets  rose." — This  is  a  slip  of  the  memory,  for  there  were 
hardly  carpets  in  those  days.  But  the  truth  of  the  painting 
makes  amends,  as  in  the  unchronological  pictures  of  old  masters. 


KEATS.  24P 


LONELY  SOUNDS. 

Undescribed  sounds 
That  come  a-swooning  over  hollow  grounds, 
Jind  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors. 


ORION. 

At  this,  with  madden'd  stare, 
And  lifted  hands,  and  trembling  lips  he  stood. 
Like  old  Deucalion  mountain'd  o'er  the  flood. 
Or  blind  Orion  hungry  for  the  morn. 


CIRCE  AND  HER  VICTIMS. 

Fierce,  wan. 
And  tyrannizing  was  the  lady's  look. 
As  over  them  a  gnarled  staff  she  shook. 
Ofttimes  upon  the  sudden  she  laugh'd  out. 
And  from  a  basket  emptied  to  the  rout 
Clusters  of  grapes,  the  which  they  raven'd  quick 
And  roar'd  for  more,  with  many  a  hungry  lick 
About  their  shaggy  jaws.     Avenging,  slow, 
Anon  she  took  a  branch  of  misletoe, 
And  emptied  on  't  a  black  dull-gurgling  phial : 
Groaned  one  and  all,  as  if  some  piercing  trial 
Were  sharpening  for  their  pitiable  bones. 
She  lifted  up  the  charm :  appealing  groans 
From  their  poor  breasts  went  suing  to  her  ear 
In  vain :  remorseless  as  an  infanfs  bier. 
She  whisk'd  against  their  eyes  the  sooty  oil ; 
Whereat  was  heard  a  noise  of  painful  toil. 
Increasing  gradual  to  a  tempest  rage, 
Shrieks,  yells,  and  groans,  of  torture  pilgrimage. 


€ 


250  KEATS. 


A  BETTER  ENCHANTRESS  IMPRISONED  IN  THE  SHAPE 
OF  A  SERPENT. 

She  was  a  gordian  shape  of  dazzling  hue, 

Vermilion-spotted,  golden,  green,  and  blue, 

Striped  like  a  zebra,  speckled  like  a  pard. 

Eyed  like  a  peacock,  and  all  crimson-barred. 

And  full  of  silver  moons,  that  as  she  breathed 

Dissolved  or  brighter  shone,  or  interwreath'd 

Their  lustres  with  the  gloomier  tapestries. 

So,  rainbow-sided,  full  of  miseries, 

See  seem'd,  at  once,  some  penanc'd  lady  elf. 

Some  demon's  mistress,  or  the  demon's  self. 

Upon  her  crest  she  wore  a  wannish  fire 

Sprinkled  with  stars,  like  Ariadne's  tiar ; 

Her  head  was  serpent;  but  ah,  bitter  sweet! 

She  had  a  womavUs  mouth,  with  all  its  pearls  complete 


SATURN  DETHRONED. 

Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale, 

Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  morn, 

Far  from  the  fiery  noon,  and  eve's  one  star, 

Sat  grey-hair' d  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone. 

Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair; 

Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head, 

Like  cloud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was  there, 

Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 

Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feather'd  grass. 

But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it  rest. 

A  stream  went  voiceless  by,  still  deaden'd  more 

By  reason  of  his  fallen  divinity 

Spreading  a  shade :  the  Naiad,  'mid  her  reeds, 

Press'd  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 

Along  the  margin  sand  large  footmarks  went. 

Nor  further  than  to  where  his  feet  had  stray'd. 

And  slept  there  since.     Upon  the  sodden  ground 

His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless,  dead, 

Unsceptred;  and  his  realmless  eyes  were  closed. 


KEATS.  251 


THE  VOICE  OF  A  MELANCHOLY  GODDESS  SPEAKING 
TO  SATURN. 

As  when  upon  a  tranchd  summer-night 
Those  green-robed  senators  of  mighty  woods. 
Tall  oaks,  branch- charmed  by  the  earnest  stars, 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a  stir^ 
Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  giist. 
Which  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies  off. 
As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave: 
So  came  these  words,  and  went. 


A  FALLEN  GOD. 

The  bright  Titan,  frenzied  with  new  woes, 

Unus'd  to  bend,  by  hard  compulsion,  bent 

His  spirit  to  the  sorrow  of  the  time  ; 

And  all  along  a  dismal  rack  of  clouds, 

Upon  the  boundaries  of  day  and  night. 

He  stretched  himself,  in  grief  and  radiance  faint. 


OTHER  TITANS  FALLEN. 

Scarce  images  of  life,  one  here,  one  there, 
Lay  vast  and  edgeways  ;  like  a  dismal  cirque 
Of  Druid  stones,  upon  a  forlorn  moor. 
When  the  chill  rain  begins  at  shut  of  eve 
In  dull  JsTovember,  and  their  chancel  vault. 
The  heaven  itself,  is  Minded  throughout  night 


I 


353  KEATS. 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE.i* 

My  hoirt  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pain8 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk. 
*T  is  not  through  envy  of  thy  haj)py  lot. 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, 

That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees. 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beeches  green,  and  shadows  numberless^ 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

0  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth. 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green. 

Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sun-burnt  mirth  I 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
IVith  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen. 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim  : 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known. 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit,  and  hear  each  other  groan  ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  grey  hairs ; 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs ; 
Where  beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away !  away !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee. 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards. 

But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards ; 

Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night. 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays ; 


^;«l^' 


KEATS. 


But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy  ways. 

/  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

A''or  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs. 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild  ; 
White-hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine  ; 
Fast-fading  violets,  cover'd  up  in  leaves ; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child. 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen ;  and,  for  many  a  time, 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
CalVd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath  ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die. 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstacy  ! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  bird  ! 

JVb  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down : 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown ; 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home. 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn  ; 
The  same  that  ofttimes  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn.^^ 

Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self ! 
Adieu !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 

As  she  is  fam'd  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu !  adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 

Past  the  near  meado'we,  over  the  still  stream. 
Up  the  hill  side  ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades  7 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking-dream  ! 

Fled  is  that  music  ?    Do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 


254  KEATS. 


»8  "  Ode  to  a  JsrightingaUr — This  poem  was  written  in  a  house 
at  the  foot  of  Highgate  Hill,  on  the  border  of  the  fields  looking 
towards  Hampstead.  The  poet  had  then  his  mortal  illness  upon 
him,  and  knew  it.     Never  was  the  voice  of  death  sweeter. 

19  "  Charnid  magic  casements,"  &c — This  beats  Claude's  En- 
chanted Castle,  and  the  story  of  King  Beder  in  the  Arabian 
Nights.  You  do  not  know  what  the  house  is,  or  where,  nor  who 
♦he  bird.  Perhaps  a  king  himself  But  you  see  the  window, 
open  on  the  perilous  sea,  and  hear  the  voice  from  out  the  trees 
in  which  it  is  nested,  sending  its  warble  over  the  foam..  The 
whole  is  at  once  vague  and  particular,  full  of  mysterious  life. 
You  see  nobody,  though  something  is  heard ;  and  you  know  not 
what  of  beauty  or  wickedness  is  to  come  over  that  sea.  Perhaps 
it  was  suggested  by  some  fairy  tale.  I  remember  nothing  of  it 
in  the  dream-like  wildness  of  things  in  Palmerin  of  England,  a 
book  which  is  full  of  color  and  home  landscapes,  ending  with  a 
noble  and  affecting  scene  of  war  ;  and  of  which  Keats  was  very 
fond. 


ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER. 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold, 

And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen ; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been, 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told. 

That  deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne  ; 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene. 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  s^ak  out  loud  and  bold : 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies. 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken  ; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez,  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  star'd  at  the  Pacific^^ — and  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Barien.^^ 

^  "  He  stared  at  the  Pacific,"  &c — '«  Stared  "  has  been  thought 
by  some  too  violent,  but  it  is  precisely  the  word  required  by  the 


KEATS.  255 


occasion.  The  Spaniard  was  too  original  and  ardent  a  man 
either  to  look,  or  to  affect  to  look,  coldly  superior  to  it.  His 
"  eagle  eyes  "  arq  from  life,  as  may  be  seen  by  Titian's  por- 
trait of  him. 

The  public  are  indebted  to  Mr.  Charles  Knight  for  a  cheap 
reprint  of  Homer  and  Chapman. 

a  "  Silent,  upon  apeak  in Darien." — A  most  fit  line  to  conclude 
our  volume.  We  leave  the  reader  standing  upon  it,  with  all  the 
illimitable  world  of  thought  and  feeling  before  him,  to  which  his 
imagination  will  have  been  brought,  while  journeying  through 
these  "realms  of  gold." 


THB     END. 


m 


#■ 


THE   GENIUS, 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


BY  PROFESSOR  WILSON. 

OF   THE   UNIVERSITY   OF   EDINBURGH, 

ATTTHOR   OF   THE   LIGHTS   AND   SHADOWS   OF   SCOTTISH 

life;     THE   RECOLLECTIONS   OF   CHRISTOPHER 

NORTH,   ETC.,   ETC. 


X 


NEW-YORK : 

WILEY  AND  PUTNAM,  161  BROADWAY. 

1845. 


# 


R.  Craiohbab's  Power  : 
112  Fulton  Street. 


Stereotyped  by  T.  B.  Smith, 
216  William  Street 


ON  THE 


GENIUS  AND  CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


BY  PROFESSOR  WILSON. 


Burns  is  by  far  the  greatest  poet  that  ever  sprung  from  the 
bosom  of  the  people,  and  lived  and  died  in  an  humble  condition. 
Indeed,  no  country  in  the  world  but  Scotland  could  have  pro- 
duced such  a  man;  and  he  will  be  for  ever  regarded  as  the 
glorious  representative  of  the  genius  of  his  country.  He  was 
born  a  poet,  if  ever  man  was,  and  to  his  native  genius  alone  is 
owing  the  perpetuity  of  his  fame.  For  he  manifestly  had  never 
very  deeply  studied  poetry  as  an  art,  nor  reasoned  much  about 
its  principles, -nor  looked  abroad  with  the  wide  ken  of  intellect 
for  objects  and  subjects  on  which  to  pour  out  his  inspiration. 
The  condition  of  the  peasantry  of  Scotland,  the  happiest,  per- 
haps, that  providence  ever  allowed  to  the  children  of  labor,  was 
not  surveyed  and  speculated  on  by  him  as  the  field  of  poetry, 
but  as  the  field  of  his  own  existence ;  and  he  chronicled  the 
events  that  passed  there,  not  merely  as  food  for  his  imagination 
as  a  poet,  but  as  food  for  his  heart  as  a  man.  Hence,  when 
inspired  to  compose  poetry,  poetry  came  gushing  up  from  the 
well  of  his  human  affections,  and  he  had  nothing  more  to  do, 
than  to  pour  it,  like  streams  irrigating  a  meadow,  in  many  a 
cheerful  tide  over  the  drooping  flowers  and  fading  verdure  of 
life.  Imbued  with  vivid  perceptions,  warm  feelings,  and  strong 
2 


<] 


THE  GENIUS  AND 


passions,  he  sent  his  own  existence  into  that  of  all  things, 
animate  and  inanimate,  around  him ;  and  not  an  occurrence  in 
hamlet,  village,  or  town,  affecting  in  any  way  the  happiness  of 
the  human  heart,  but  roused  as  keen  an<  interest  in  the  soul  of 
Burns,  and  as  genial  a  sympathy,  as  if  it  had  immediately  con- 
cerned himself  and  his  own  individual  welfare.  Most  other 
poets  of  rural  life  have  looked  on  it  through  the  aerial  veil  of 
imagination — often  beautified,  no  doubt,  by  such  partial  conceal- 
ment, and  beaming  with  a  misty  softness  more  delicate  than  the 
truth.  But  Burns  would  not  thus  indulge  his  fancy  where  he 
had  felt — felt  so  poignantly,  all  the  agonies  and  all  the  trans- 
ports of  life.  He  looked  around  him,  and  when  he  saw  the 
smoke  of  the  cottage  rising  up  quietly  and  unbroken  to  heaven, 
he  knew,  for  he  had  seen  and  blessed  it,  the  quiet  joy  and  un- 
broken contentment  that  slept  below ;  and  ^when  he  saw  it 
driven  and  dispersed  by  the  winds,  he  knew  also  but  too  well, 
for  too  sorely  had  he  felt  them,  those  agitations  and  disturbances 
which  had  shook  him  till  he  wept  on  his  chaff  bed.  In  reading 
his  poetry,  therefore,  we  know  what  unsubstantial  dreams  are 
all  those  of  the  golden  age.  But  bliss  beams  upon  us  with  a 
more  subduing  brightness  through  the  dim  melancholy  that 
shrouds  lowly  life  ;  and  when  the  peasant  Burns  rises  up  in  his 
might  as  Burns  the  poet,  and  is  seen  to  derive  all  that  might 
from  the  life  which  at  this  hour  the  peasantry  of  Scotland  are 
leading,  our  hearts  leap  within  us,  because  that  such  is  our 
country,  and  such  the  nobility  of  her  children.  There  is  no 
delusion,  no  affectation,  no"  exaggeration,  no  falsehood  in  the 
spirit  of  Burns's  poetry.  He  rejoices  like  an  untamed  enthu- 
siast, and  he  weeps  like  a  prostrate  penitent.  In  joy  and  in 
grief  the  whole  man  appears :  some  of  his  finest  effusions  were 
poured  out  before  he  left  the  fields  of  his  childhood,  and  when 
he  scarcely  hoped  for  other  auditors  than  his  own  heart,  and  the 
simple  dwellers  of  the  hamlet.  He  wrote  not  to  please  or  sur- 
prise others — we  speak  of  those  first  effusions — but  in  his  own 
creative  delight ;  and  even  after  he  had  discovered  his  power  to 
kindle  the  sparks  of  nature  wherever  they  slumbered,  the  effect 
to  be  produced  seldom  seems  to  have  been  considered  by  him, 
assured  that  his  poetry  could  not  fail  to  produce  the  same  pas- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


sion  in  the  hearts  of  other  men  from  which  it  boiled  over  in  his 
own.  Out  of  himself,  and  beyond  his  own  nearest  and  dearest 
concerns,  he  well  could,  but  he  did  not  much  love  often  or  long 
to  go.  His  imagination  wanted  not  wings  broad  and  strong  for 
highest  flights.  But  he  was  most  at  home  when  walking  on  this 
earth,  through  this  world,  even  along  the  banks  and  braes  of  the 
streams  of  Coila.  It  seems  as  if  his  muse  were  loth  to  admit 
almost  any  thought,  feeling,  image,  drawn  from  any  other  region 
than  his  native  district — the  hearth-stone  of  his  father's  hut — 
the  still  or  troubled  chamber  of  his  own  generous  and  passionate 
bosom.  Dear  to  him  the  jocund  laughter  of  the  reapers  on  the 
corn-field,  the  tears  and  sighs  which  his  own  strains  had  won 
from  the  children  of  nature  enjoying  the  mid-day  hour  of  rest 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  hedgerow  tree.  With  what  pathetic 
personal  power,  from  all  the  circumstances  of  his  character  and 
condition,  do  many  of  his  humblest  lines  affect  us !  Often,  too 
often,  as  we  hear  him  singing,  we  think  that  we  see  him  suffer- 
ing !  "  Most  musical,  most  melancholy"  he  often  is,  even  in  his 
merriment !  In  him,  alas  !  the  transports  of  inspiration  are  but 
too  closely  allied  with  reality's  kindred  agonies !  The  strings 
of  his  lyre  sometimes  yield  their  finest  music  to  the  sighs  of 
remorse  or  repentance.  Whatever,  therefore,  be  the  faults  or 
defects  of  the  poetry  of  Burns — and  no  doubt  it  has  many — it 
has,  beyond  all  that  ever  was  written,  this  greatest  of  all  merits, 
intense,  life-pervading,  and  life-breathing  truth. 

There  is  probably  not  a  human  being  come  to  the  years  of 
understanding  in  all  Scotland,  who  has  not  heard  of  the  name 
of  Robert  Burns.  It  is,  indeed,  a  household  word.  His  poems 
are  found  lying  in  almost  every  cottage  in  the  country,  on  the 
"window  sole"  of  the  kitchen,  spence,.  or  parlor;  and  in  the 
town-dwellings  of  the  industrious  poor,  if  books  belong  to  the 
family  at  all,  you  are  pretty  sure  to  see  there  the  dear  Ayrshire 
Ploughman.  The  father  or  mother,  born  and  long  bred,  per- 
haps, among  banks  and  braes,  possesses,  in  that  small  volume, 
a  talisman  that  awakens  in  a  moment  all  the  sweet  visions  of 
the  past,  and  that  can  crowd  the  dim  abode  of  hard-working 
poverty,  with  a  world  of  dear  rural  remembrances  that  awaken 
not  repining  but  contentment. 


THE  GENIUS  AND 


No  poet  ever  lived  more  constantly  and  more  intimately  in 
the  hearts  of  a  people.  With  their  mirth,  or  with  their  melan- 
choly, how  often  do  his  "native  wood-notes  wild"  affect  the 
sitters  by  the  ingles  of  low-roofed  homes,  till  their  hearts  over- 
flow with  feelings  that  place  them  on  a  level,  as  moral  creatures, 
with  the  most  enlightened  in  the  land,  and  more  than  reconcile 
them  with,  make  them  proud  of,  the  condition  assigned  them  by 
Providence !  There  they  see  with  pride  the  reflection  of  the 
character  and  condition  of  their  own  order.  That  pride  is  one 
of  the  best  natural  props  of  poverty ;  for,  supported  by  it,  the 
poor  envy  not  the  rich.  They  exult  to  know  and  to  feel  that 
they  have  had  treasures  bequeathed  to  them  by  one  of  them- 
selves— treasures  of  the  heart,  the  intellect,  the  fancy,  and  the 
imagination,  of  which  the  possession  and  the  enjoyment  are  one 
and  the  same,  as  long  as  they  pr«serve  their  integrity  and  their 
independence.  The  poor  man,  as  he  speaks  of  Robert  Burns, 
always  holds  up  his  head  and  regards  you  with  an  elated  look. 
A  tender  thought  of  the  •'  Cottar's  Saturday  Night,"  or  a  bold 
thought  of  "  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled,"  may  come  across 
him  ;  and  he  who  in  such  a  spirit  loves  home  and  country,  by 
whose  side  may  he  not  walk  an  equal  in  the  broad  eye  of  day 
as  it  shines  over  our  Scottish  hills  ?  This  is  true  popularity. 
Thus  interpreted,  the  word  sounds  well,  and  recovers  its  ancient 
meaning.  The  land  "  made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow," — 
the  broomy  or  the  heathery  braes — the  holms  by  the  river's  side 
— the  forest  where  the  woodman's  ringing  axe  no  more  disturbs 
the  cushat — the  deep  dell  where  all  day  long  sits  solitary  plaided 
boy  or  girl  watching  the  kine  or  the  sheep — the  moorland  hut 
without  any  garden — the  lowland  cottage,  whose  garden  glows 
like  a  very  orchard,  when  crimsoned  with  fruit-blossoms  most 
beautiful  to  behold — the  sylvan  homestead  sending  its  reek  aloft 
over  the  huge  sycamore  that  blackens  on  the  hill-side — the 
straw-roofed  village  gathering  with  small  bright  crofts  its  many 
white  gable-ends  round  and  about  the  modest  manse,  and  the 
kirk-spire  covered  with  the  pine-tree  that  shadows  its  horologe — 
the  small,  quiet,  half-slated  half-thatched  rural  town, — there 
resides,  and  will  for  ever  reside,  the  immortal  genius  of  Burns. 
Oh,  that  he,  the  prevailing  Poet,  could  have  seen  this   light 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


breaking  in  upon  the  darkness  that  did  too  long  and  too  deeply 
overshadow  his  lot !  Some  glorious  glimpses  of  it  his  prophetic 
soul  did  see  ;  witness  "  The  Vision,"  or  that  somewhat  humbler 
but  yet  high  strain,  in  which,  bethinking  him  of  the  undefined 
aspirations  of  his  boyhood  he  said  to  hiniself — 

"  Even  then  a  wish,  I  mind  its  power, 
A  wish  that  to  my  latest  hour, 

Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast. 
That  I,  for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake. 
Some  useful  plan  or  book  would  make. 

Or  sing  a  sang  at  least ! 

**  The  rough  bur-thistle  spreading  wide 
Amang  the  bearded  bear, 
I  turned  the  weeder-clips  aside 
And  spared  the  symbol  dear." 

Such  hopes  were  with  him  in  his  "  bright  and  shining  youth," 
surrounded  as  it  was  with  toil  and  trouble  that  could  not  bend 
his  brow  from  its  natural  upward  inclination  to  the  sky ;  and 
such  hopes,  let  us  doubt  it  not,  were  also  with  him  in  his  dark 
and  faded  prime,  when  life's  lannp  burned  low  indeed,  and  he 
was  willing  at  last,  early  as  it  was,  to  shut  his  eyes  on  this 
dearly  beloved  but  sorely  distracting  world. 

With  what  strong  and  steady  enthusiasm  is  the  anniversary  of 
Burns's  birth-day  celebrated,  not  only  ail  over  his  own  native 
land,  but  in  every  country  to  which  an  adventurous  spirit  has 
carried  her  sons !  On  such  occasions,  nationality  is  a  virtue. 
For  what  else  is  the  "  Memory  of  Burns,"  but  the  memory  of 
all  that  dignifies  and  adorns  the  region  that  gave  him  birth  ? 
Not  till  that  region  is  shorn  of  all  its  beams — its  honesty,  its 
independence,  its  moral  worth,  its  genius,  and  its  piety,  will  the 
name  of  Burns 

"  Die  on  her  ear,  a  faint  unheeded  sound." 

But  it  has  an  immortal  life  in  the  hearts  of  young  and  old, 
whether  sitting  at  gloaming  by  the  ingle-side,  or  on  the  stone 
seat  in  the  open  air,  as  the  sun  is  going  down,  or  walking  among 
the  summer  mists  on  the  mountain,  or  the  blinding  winter  snows. 


THE  GENIUS  AND 


In  the  life  of  the  poor  there  is  an  unchanging  and  a  preserving 
spirit.  The  great  elementary  feelings  of  human  nature  there 
disdain  fluctuating  fashions  ;  there  pain  and  pleasure  are  alike 
permanent  in  their  outward  shows  as  in  their  inward  emotions ; 
there  the  language  of  passion  never  grows  obsolete ;  and  at  the 
same  passage  you  hear  the  child  sobbing  at  the  knee  of  her 
grandame  whose  old  eyes  are  somewhat  dimmer  than  usual 
with  a  haze  that  seems  almost  to  be  of  tears.  Therefore,  the 
poetry  of  Burns  will  continue  to  charm,  as  long  as  Nith 
flows,  Criflfel  is  green,  and  the  bonny  blue  of  the  sky  of  Scot- 
land meets  with  that  in  the  eyes  of  her  maidens,  as  they  walk 
up  and  down  her  hills  silent  or  singing  to  kirk  or  market. 

Let  us  picture  to  ourselves  the  Household  in  which  Burns 
grew  up  to  manhood,  shifting  its  place  without  much  changing 
its  condition,  from  first  to  last  always  fighting  against  fortune, 
experiencing  the  evil  and  the  good  of  poverty,  and  in  the  sight 
of  men  obscure.  His  fkther  may  be  said  to  have  been  an  elderly 
man  when  Robert  was  born,  for  he  was  within  a  few  years  of 
forty,  and  had  always  led  a  life  of  labor;  and  labor  it  is  that 
wastes  away  the  stubbornest  strength — among  the  tillers  of  the 
earth  a  stern  ally  of  time.  "  His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  and 
bare"  at  an  age  when  many  a  forehead  hardly  shows  a  wrinkle, 
and  when  thick  locks  cluster  darkly  round  the  temples  of  easy 
living  men.  The  sire  who  "  turns  o'er  wi'  patriarchal  pride  the 
big  Ha-Bible,"  is  indeed  well-stricken  in  years,  but  he  is  not  an 
old  man,  for 

"  The  expectant  wee  things  toddlin',  stacher  through 

To  meet  their  dad  wi'  flichterin'  noise  and  glee  ; 

His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinking  bonnily  ; 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie  wifie's  smile, 

The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee. 

Does  a'  his  weary  carking  cares  beguile, 
And  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  and  his  toil." 

That  picture,  Burns,  as  all  the  world  knows,  drew  from  his 
father.  He  was  himself,  in  imagination,  again  one  of  the  "  wee 
things  "  that  ran  to  meet  him  ;  and  "  the  priest-like  father  "  had 
long  worn  that  aspect  before' the  poet's  eyes,  though  he  died  be- 
fore he  was  threescore.     "  I  have  always  considered  William 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


Burnes,"  says  the  simple-minded,  tender-hearted  Murdoch,  "  as 
by  far  the  best  of  the  human  race  that  ever  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  being  acquainted  with,  and  many  a  worthy  character  I  have 
known.  He  was  a  tender  and  affectionate  father  ;  he  took  plea- 
sure in  leading  his  children  in  the  paths  of  virtue,  not  in  driving 
them,  as  some  people  do,  to  the  performance  of  duties  to  which 
they  themselves  are  averse.  He  took  care  to  find  fault  very 
seldom ;  and,  therefore,  when  he  (iid  rebuke,  he  was  listened  to 
with  a  kind  of  reverential  awe.  I  must  not  pretend  to  give  you 
a  description  of  all  the  manly  qualities,  the  rational  and  Chris- 
tian virtues,  of  the  venerable  William  Burnes.  I  shall  only 
add  that  he  practised  every  known  duty,  and  avoided  everything 
that  was  criminal ;  or,  in  the  apostle's  words,  '  herein  did  he 
exercise  himself,  in  living  a  life  void  of  offence  towards  God 
and  towards  man.'  Although  I  cannot  do  justice  to  the  char- 
acter of  this  worthy  man,  yet  you  will  perceive,  from  these 
few  particulars,  what  kind  of  a  person  had  the  principal  part  in 
the  education  of  the  poet."  Burns  was  as  happy  in  a  mother, 
whom,  in  countenance,  it  is  said  he  resembled ;  and  as  sons  and 
daughters  were  born,  we  think  of  the  "  auld  clay  biggin  "  more 
and  more  alive  with  cheerfulness  and  peace. 

His  childhood,  then,  was  a  happy  one,  secured  from  all  evil 
influences  and  open  to  all  good,  in  the  guardianship  of  religious 
parental  love.  Not  a  boy  in  Scotland  had  a  better  education. 
For  a  few  months,  when  in  his  sixth  year,  he  was  at  a  small 
school  at  Alloway  Miln,  about  a  mile  from  the  house  in  which 
he  was  born ;  and  for  two  years  after  under  the  tuition  of  good 
John  Murdoch,  a  young  scholar  whom  William  Burnes  and  four 
or  five  neighbors  engaged  to  supply  the  place  of  the  school- 
master, who  had  been  removed  to  another  situation,  lodging  him, 
as  is  still  the  custom  in  some  country  places,  by  turns  in  their 
own  houses.  "  The  earliest  composition  I  recollect  taking 
pleasure  in,  was  the  Vision  of  Mirza,  and  a  hymn  of  Addison's, 
beginning  'How  are  thy  servants  blessed,  O  Lord/'  I  particu- 
larly remember  one  half  stanza  which  was  music  to  my  boyish 
ear, 

•  For  though  on  dreadful  whirls  we  hang, 
High  on  the  broken  wave.' 


THE  GENIUS  AND 


I  met  with  these  pieces  in  Mason's  English  Collection,  one  of  my 
school-books.  The  two  first  books  I  ever  read  in  print,  and 
which  gave  me  more  pleasure  than  any  two  books  I  ever  read 
since,  were  the  Life  of  Hannibal,  and  the  History  of  Sir  William 
Wallace.  Hannibal  gave  my  young  ideas  such  a  turn  that  I 
used  to  strut  in  raptures  up  and  down  after  the  recruiting  drum 
and  bagpipe,  and  wished  myself  tall  enough  to  be  a  soldier; 
while  the  story  of  Wallace  poured  a  tide  of  Scottish  prejudice 
into  my  veins,  which  will  boil  along  there  till  the  floodgates  of 
life  shut  in  eternal  rest."  And  speaking  of  the  same  period  and 
books  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  he  says,  "  For  several  of  my  earlier  years 
I  had  few  other  authors ;  and  many  a  solitary  hour  have  I  stole 
out,  after  the  laborious  vocations  of  the  day,  to  shed  a  tear  over 
their  glorious  but  unfortunate  stories.  In  these  boyish  days,  I 
remember,  in  particular,  being  struck  with  that  part  of  Wal- 
lace's story,  where  these  lines  occur — 

*  Syne  to  the  Leglen  wood,  when  it  was  late, 
To  make  a  silent  and  a  safe  retreat.' 

I  chose  a  fine  summer  Sunday,  the  only  day  my  line  of  life 
allowed,  and  walked  half  a  dozen  miles  to  pay  my  respects  to 
the  Leglen  wood,  with  as  much  devout  enthusiasm  as  ever  pil- 
grim did  to  Loretto ;  and  explored  every  den  and  dell  where  I 
could  suppose  my  heroic  countryman  to  have  lodged."  Murdoch 
continued  his  instructions  until  the  family  had  been  about  two 
years  at  Mount  Oliphant,  and  there  being  no  school  near  us, 
says  Gilbert  Burns,  and  our  services  being  already  useful  on  the 
farm,  "  my  father  undertook  to  teach  us  arithmetic  on  the  winter 
nights  by  candle-light ;  and  in  this  way  my  two  elder  sisters 
received  all  the  education  they  ever  had."  Robert  was  then  in 
his  ninth  year,  and  had  owed  much,  he  tells  us,  to  "  an  old 
woman  who  resided  in  the  family,  remarkable  for  her  ignorance, 
credulity,  and  superstition.  She  had,  I  suppose,  the  largest 
collection  in  the  country  of  tales  and  songs  concerning  devils, 
ghosts,  fairies,  brownies,  witchies,  warlocks,  spunkies,  kelpies, 
elf-candles,  dead  lights,  wraiths,  apparitions,  cantrips,  giants 
and  enchanted  towers,  dragons,  and  other  trumpery.  This  cul- 
tivated the  latent  seeds  of  poetry ;  but  had  so  strong  an  effect 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


on  my  imagination,  that  to  this  hour,  in  my  nocturnal  rambles, 
I  sometimes  keep  a  sharp  look-out  on  suspicious  places ;  and 
though  nobody  can  be  more  sceptical  than  I  am  in  such  matters, 
yet  it  often  takes  an  effort  of  philosophy  to  shake  off  these  idle 
terrors." 

We  said,  that  not  a  boy  in  Scotland  had  a  better  education 
than  Robert  Burns,  and  we  do  not  doubt  that  you  will  agree 
Avith  us ;  for,  in  addition  to  all  that  may  be  contained  in  those 
sources  of  useful  and  entertaining  knowledge,  he  had  been 
taught  to  read,  not  only  in  tlie  Spelling  Book,  and  Fisher^s 
English  Grammar,  and  The  Vision  of  Mirza,  and  Addison's 
Hymns,  and  Titus  Andronicus  (though  on  Lavinia's  entrance 
"  with  her  hands  cut  off,  and  her  tongue  cut  out,"  he  threatened 
to  burn  the  book) ;  but  in  the  New  Testament  and  the  Bible, 
and  all  this  in  his  father's  house,  or  in  the  houses  of  the  neigh- 
bors ;  happy  as  the  day  was  long,  or  the  night,  and  in  the  midst 
of  happiness ;  yet  even  then,  sometimes  saddened,  no  doubt,  to 
see  something  more  than  solemnity  or  awfulness  on  his  father's 
lace,  that  was  always  turned  kindly  towards  the  children,  but 
seldom  wore  a  smile. 

Wordsworth  had  these  memorials  in  his  mind  when  he  was 
conceiving  the  boyhood  of  the  Pedlar  in  his  great  poem,  the 
Excursion. 

"  But  eagerly  he  read  and  read  again, 
Whate'er  the  minister's  old  shelf  supplied  ; 
The  life  and  death  of  martyrs,  who  sustained 
With  will  inflexible,  those  fearful  pangs 
Triumphantly  displayed  in  records  left 
Of  persecution,  and  the  covenant,  times 
Whose  echo  rings  through  Scotland  to  this  hour; 
And  there,  by  lucky  hap,  had  been  preserved 
A  straggling  volume,  torn  and  incomplete. 
That  left  half-told  the  preternatural  tale, 
Romance  of  giants,  chronicle  of  fiends. 
Profuse  in  garniture  of  wooden  cuts 
Strange  and  uncouth  ;  dire  faces,  figures  dire, 
Sharp-knee'd,  sharp-elbowed,  and  lean-ancled  too. 
With  long  and  ghastly  shanks — forms  which  once  seen 
Could  never  be  forgotten.     In  his  heart 
Where  fear  sate  thus,  a  cherished  visitant, 
Was  wanting  yet  the  pure  delight  of  love 


10  THE  GENIUS  AND 


By  sound  diffused,  or  by  the  breathing  air, 
Or  by  the  silent  looks  of  happy  things, 
Or  flowing  from  the  universal  face 
Of  earth  and  sky.     But  he  had  felt  the  power 
Of  nature,  and  already  was  prepared. 
By  his  intense  conceptions,  to  receive 
Deeply  the  lesson  deep  of  love,  which  he 
Whom  nature,  by  whatever  means,  has  taught 
To  feel  intensely,  cannot  but  receive. 
Such  was  the  boy. 

Such  was  the  boy ;  but  his  studies  had  now  to  be  pursued  by 
fits  and  snatches,  and,  therefore,  the  more  eagerly  and  earnestly, 
during  the  intervals  or  at  the  close  of  labor,  that  before  his  thir- 
teenth year  had  become  constant  and  severe.  "  The  cheerless 
gloom  of  a  hermit,  with  the  unceasing  moil  of  a  galley-slave  ! " 
These  are  his  own  memorable  words,  and  they  spoke  the  truth. 
"For  nothing  could  be  more  retired,"  says  Gilbert,  "than  our 
general  manner  of  living  at  Mount  Oliphant ;  we  scarcely  saw 
any  but  members  of  our  own  family.  There  were  no  boys  of 
our  own  age,  or  near  it,  in  the  neighborhood."  They  all  worked 
hard  from  morning  to  night,  and  Robert  hardest  of  them  all.  At 
fifteen  he  was  the  principal  laborer  on  the  farm,  and  relieved  his 
father  from  holding  the  plough.  Two  years  before  he  had  as- 
sisted  in  thrashing  the  crop  of  corn.  The  two  noble  brothers 
saw  with  anguish  the  old  man  breaking  down  before  their  eyes ; 
nevertheless  assuredly,  though  they  knew  it  not,  they  were  the 
happiest  boys  "the  evening  sun  went  down  upon."  "True," 
as  Gilbert  tells  us,  "  I  doubt  not  but  the  hard  labor  and  sorrow 
of  this  period  of  his  life  was  in  a  great  measure  the  cause  of 
that  depression  of  spirits  with  which  Robert  was  so  often  afflicted 
through  his  whole  life  afterwards.  At  this  time  he  was  almost 
constantly  afflicted  in  the  evenings  with  a  dull  head-ache,  which 
at  a  future  period  of  his  life  was  exchanged  for  a  palpitation  of 
the  heart,  and  a  threatening  of  fainting  and  suffocation  in  his 
bed  in  the  night-time."  Nevertheless,  assuredly  both  boys 
were  happy,  and  Robert  the  happier  of  the  two ;  for  if  he  had 
not  been  so,  why  did  he  not  go  to  sea  ?  Because  he  loved  his 
parents  too  well  to  be  able  to  leave  them,  and  because,  too,  it  was 
his  duty  to  stay  by  them,  were  he  to  drop  down  at  midnight  in 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  11 

the  barn  and  die  with  the  flail  in  his  hand.  But  if  love  and  duty 
cannot  make  a  boy  happy,  what  can  ?  Passion,  genius,  a  teem- 
ing brain,  a  palpitating  heart,  and  a  soul  of  fire.  These  too 
were  his,  and  idle  would  have  been  her  tears,  had  Pity  wept  for 
young  Robert  Burns. 

Was  he  not  hungry  for  knowledge  from  a  child  ?  During 
these  very  years  he  was  devouring  it ;  and  soon  the  dawn  grew 
day.  "  My  father,"  says  Gilbert,  "  was  for  some  time  the  only 
companion  we  had.  He  conversed  familiarly  on  all  subjects 
with  us,  as  if  we  had  been  men ;  and  was  at  great  pains,  while 
we  accompanied  him  in  the  labors  of  the  farm,  to  lead  the  con- 
versation to  such  subjects  as  might  tend  to  increase  our  know- 
ledge, or  confirm  us  in  virtuous  habits.  He  borrowed  Salmon's 
Geographical  Grammar  for  us,  and  endeavored  to  make  us  ac- 
quainted with  the  situation  and  history  of  the  different  countries 
in  the  world ;  while  from  a  book  society  in  Ayr,  he  procured  for 
us  the  reading  of  Durham's  Physico  and  Astro  Theology,  and 
Ray's  Wisdom  of  God  in  the  Creation.  Robert  read  all  these 
books  with  an  avidity  and  industry  scarcely  to  be  equalled.  My 
father  had  been  a  subscriber  to  Stackhouse's  History  of  the 
Bible.  From  this  Robert  collected  a  competent  knowledge  of 
ancient  history ;  for  no  hook  was  so  voluminous  as  to  slacken  his 
industry,  or  so  antiquated  as  to  damp  his  researches'^  He  kept 
reading  too  at  the  Spectator,  Pope  and  Pope's  Homer,  some  plays  ^^ 
of  Shakspeare,  Boyle's  Lectures,  Locke  on  the  Human  Under-  i^ 
standing,  Hervey's  Meditations,  Taylor's  Scripture  Doctrine  of 
Original  Sin,  the  works  of  Allan  Ramsay  and  Smollet,  and  A 
Collection  of  Songs.  "  That  volume  was  my  Vade  Mecum. 
I  pored  over  them,  during  my  work,  or  walking  to  labor,  song 
by  song,  verse  by  verse,  carefully  noticing  the  true  tender  or 
sublime  from  aflTectation  or  fustian ;  and  I  am  convinced  I  owe 
to  this  practice  most  of  my  critic-craft,  such  as  it  is." 

So  much  for  book-knowledge  ;  but  what  of  the  kind  that  is 
born  within  every  boy's  own  bosom,  and  grows  there  till  often 
that  bosom  feels  as  if  it  would  burst  ?  To  Mr.  Murdoch,  Gilbert 
always  appeared  to  possess  a  more  lively  imagination,  and  to  be 
more  of  a  wit  than  Robert.  Yet  imagination  or  wit  he  had  none. 
His  face  said,  "  Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live ; "  yet  he  was 


12  THE  GENIUS  AND 


through  life  sedate.  Robert  himself  says  that  in  childhood  he 
was  by  no  means  a  favorite  with  anybody — but  he  must  have 
been  mistaken  ;  and  "the  stubborn  sturdy  something  in  his  dis- 
position "  hindered  him  from  seeing  how  much  he  was  loved. 
The  tutor  tells  us  he  had  no  ear  for  music,  and  could  not  be 
taught  a  psalm  tune  !  Nobody  could  have  supposed  that  he 
was  ever  to  be  a  poet !  But  nobody  knew  anything  about  him — 
nor  did  he  know  much  about  himself;  till  Nature,  who  had  long 
kept,  chose  to  reveal,  her  own  secret. 

"  You  know  our  country  custom  .of  coupling  a  man  and  woman 
together  as  partners  in  the  labor  of  harvest.  In  my  fifteenth 
autumn  my  partner  was  a  bewitching  creature,  a  year  younger 
than  myself.  My  scarcity  of  English  denies  me  the  power  of 
doing  her  justice  in  that  language ;  she  was  a  bonnie,  sweet,  sonsie 
lass.  In  short,  she  altogether,  unwittingly  to  herself,  initiated 
jme  in  that  delicious  passion,  which,  in  spite  of  acid  disappoint- 
ment, gin-horse  prudence,  and  bookworm  philosophy,  I  hold  to 
be  the  first  of  human  joys,  our  sweetest  blessing  here  below. 
How  she  caught  the  contagion  I  could  not  tell :  you  medical 
people  talk  much  af  infection  from  breathing  the  same  air,  the 
touch,  &c.,  but  I  never  expressly  said  I  loved  her.  Indeed  I  did 
not  know  myself  why  I  liked  so  much  to  loiter  behind  with  her, 
when  returning  in  the  evening  from  our  labors  ;  why  the  tones  of 
her  voice  made  my  heart-strings  thrill  like  an  Eolian  harp  ;  and 
particularly  why  my  pulse  beat  such  a  furious  ratan  when  I 
looked  and  fingered  over  her  little  hand,  to  pick  out  the  cruel 
nettle-stings  and  thistles.  Among  her  other,  love-inspiring  quali- 
ties,  she  sang  sweetly ;  and  it  w,as  a  favorite  reel  to  which  I 
attempted  giving  an  embodied  vehicle  in  rhyme.  I  was  not  so 
presumptuous  as  to  imagine  that  I  could  make  verses  like  printed 
ones,  composed  by  men  who  had  Greek  and  Latin ;  but  my  girl 
sang  a  song  which  was  said  to  be  composed  by  a  small  country 
laird's  son,  on  one  of  his  father's  maids  with  whom  he  was  in 
love ;  and  I  saw  no  reason  why  I  might  not  rhyme  as  well  as 
he ;  for,  excepting  that  he  could  smear  sheep,  and  cast  peats, 
his  father  living  on  the  moorlands,  he  had  no  more  scholar  craft 
than  myself.     Thus  with  me  began  Love  and  Poetry." 

And  during  those  seven  years,  when  his  life  was  "  the  cheer- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS,  13 

less  gloom  of  a  hermit,  with  the  unceasing  moil  of  a  galley- 
slave,'*  think  ye  not  that  the  boy  Poet  was  happy,  merely  because 
he  had  the  blue  sky  over  his  head,  and  the  green  earth  beneath 
his  feet  ?  He  who  ere  long  invested  the  most  common  of  all 
the  wild-flowers  of  the  earth  with  immortal  beauty  to  all  eyes, 
far  beyond  that  of  the  rarest,  till  a  tear  as  of  pity  might  fall 
down  manly  cheeks  on  the  dew-drop  nature  gathers  on  its 
"snawie  bosom,  sunward  spread!" 

"  Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour ; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem ; 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r. 

Thou  bonnie  gem. 

*  Alas  !  it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet. 
The  bonnie  Lark,  companion  meet, 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet ! 

Wi'  speckled  breast,  * 

When  upward-springing,  blythe  to  greet 

The  purpling  east." 

Thus  far  the  life  of  this  wonderful  being  is  blameless — thus 
far  it  is  a  life  of  virtue.  Let  each  season,  with  him  and  with 
all  men,  have  its  due  meed  of  love  and  praise — and,  therefore, 
let  us  all  delight  to  declare  how  beautiful  was  the  Spring !  And 
was  there  in  all  those  bright  and  bold  blossoms  a  fallacious 
promise  ?  Certainly  not  of  the  fruits  of  genius ;  for  these  far 
surpassed  what  the  most  hopeful  could  have  predicted  of  the 
full-grown  tree.  But  did  the  character  of  the  man  belie  that  of 
the  boy  ?  Was  it  manifested  at  last,  either  that  the  moral  being 
had  undergone  some  fatal  change  reaching  to  the  core,  or  that 
it  had  been  from  the  first  hollow,  and  that  these  noble-seeming 
virtues  had  been  delusions  all  ? 

The  age  of  puberty  has  passed  with  its  burning  but  blameless 
loves,  and  Robert  Burns  is  now  a  man.  Other  seven  years  of 
the  same  kind  of  life  as  at  Mount  Oliphant,  he  enjoys  and  suffers 
at  Lochlea.  It  is  sad  to  think  that  his  boyhood  should  have 
been  so  heavily  burthened ;  but  we  look  with  no  such  thoughts 
on  his  manhood,  for  his  strength  is  knit,  and  the  sinews  of  soul 


m 


14  THE  GENIUS  AND 


and  body  are  equal  to  their  work.  He  still  lives  in  his  father's 
house,  and  he  still  upholds  it ;  he  still  reverences  his  father's 
eyes  that  are  upon  him ;  and  he  is  still  a  dutiful  son — certainly 
not  a  prodigal.  "During  the  whole*  of  the  time  we  lived  at 
Lochlea  with  my  father,  he  allowed  my  brother  and  me  such 
wages  for  our  labor  as  he  gave  to  other  laborers,  as  a  part  of 
which,  every  article  of  our  clothing  manufactured  in  the  family 
was  regularly  accounted  for.  When  my  father's  affairs  were 
near  a  crisis,  Robert  and  I  took  the  farm  of  Mossgiel,  consisting 
of  118  acres,  at  £90  per  annum,  as  an  asylum  for  the  family 
in  case  of  the  worst.  It  was  stocked  by  the  property  and  indi- 
vidual savings  of  the  whole  family,  and  was  a  joint  concern 
among  us.  Every  member  of  the  family  was  allowed  ordinary 
wages  for  the  labor  he  performed  on  the  farm.  My  brother's 
allowance  and  mine,  was  £7  per  annum  each,  and  during  the 
whole  time  this  family  concern  lasted,  which  was  four  years,  as 
well  as  during  the  preceding  period  at  Lochlea,  his  expenses 
never  in  one  year  exceeded  his  slender  income.  As  I  was  in- 
trusted with  the  keeping  of  the  family  accounts,  it  is  not  possible 
that  there  can  be  any  fallacy  in  this  statement,  in  my  brother's 
favor.  His  temperance  and  frugality  were  everything  that  could 
he  wished."  During  his  residence  for  six  months  in  Irvine,  in- 
deed, where  he  wrought  at  the  business  of  a  flax-dresser,  with 
the  view  of  adopting  that  trade,  that  he  might  get  settled  in  life, 
paid  a  shilling  a  week  for  his  lodging,  and  fed  on  meal  and 
water,  with  some  wild  boon-companions  he  occasionally  lived 
rather  free.  No  doubt  he  sometimes  tasted  the  "  Scotch  drink,'" 
of  which  he  ere  long  sung  the  praises ;  but  even  then,  his  inspi- 
ration was  from  "a  well-head  undefiled."  He  was  as  sober  a 
man  as  his  brother  Gilbert  himself,  who  says,  "  I  do  not  recol- 
lect, during  these  seven  years,  to  have  ever  seen  him  intoxi- 
cated, nor  was  he  at  all  given  to  drinking."  We  have  seen 
what  were  his  virtues — for  his  vices,  where  must  we  look  ? 

During  all  these  seven  years,  the  most  dangerous  in  the  life 
of  every  one,  that  of  Robert  Burns  was  singularly  free  from 
the  sin  to  which  nature  is  prone ;  nor  had  he  drunk  of  that 
guilty  cup  of  the  intoxication  of  the  passions,  that  bewilders  the 
virtue,  and  changes  their  wisdom  into  foolishness,  of  the  discreet- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  ]5 

est  of  the  children  of  men.  But  drink  of  it  at  last  he  did ;  and 
like  other  sinners  seemed  sometimes  even  to  glory  in  his  shame. 
But  remorse  puts  on  looks,  and  utters  words,  that  being  inter- 
preted, have  far  other  meanings ;  there  may  be  recklessness 
without  obduracy;  and  though  the  keenest  anguish  of  self- 
reproach  be  no  proof  of  penitence,  it  is  a  preparation  for  it  in 
nature — a  change  of  heart  can  be  effected  only  by  religion. 
How  wisely  he  addresses  his  friend  ! 

"  The  sacred  lowe  o'  weel  placed  love, 

Luxuriously  indulge  it ; 
But  never  tempt  th'  illicit  rove 

Though  naething  should  divulge  it 
I  wave  the  quantum  of  the  sin. 

The  hazard  o'  concealing ; 
But  oh  !  it  hardens  a'  within, 

And  petrifies  the  feeling  !  " 

It  was  before  any  such  petrifaction  of  feeling  had  to  be  de- 
plored by  Robert  Burns  that  he  loved  Mary  Campbell,  his 
"  Highland  Mary,"  with  as  pure  a  passion  as  ever  possessed 
young  poet's  heart ;  nor  is  there  so  sweet  and  sad  a  passage  re- 
corded in  the  life  of  any  other  one  of  all  the  sons  of  song. 
Many  such  partings  there  have  been  between  us  poor  beings — 
blind  at  all  times,  and  often  blindest  in  our  bliss — but  all  gone  to 
oblivion.  But  that  hour  can  never  die — that  scene  will  live  for 
ever.  Immortal  the  two  shadows  standing  there,  holding  to- 
gether the  Bible — a  little  rivulet  flowing  between — in  which,  as 
in  consecrated  water,  they  have  dipt  their  hands,  water  not 
purer  than,  at  that  moment,  their  united  hearts. 

There  are  few  of  his  songs  more  beautiful,  and  none  more 
impassioned  than  ^ 

"  Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around, 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers. 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  ! 
There  simmer  first  unfaulds  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry  ; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

0'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary." 


16  THE  GENIUS  AND 


But  what  are  lines  like  these  lo  his  "  Address  to  Mary  in  Hea- 
ven  I"  It  was  the  anniversary  of  the  day  on  which  he  heard 
of  her  death — that  to  him  was  the  day  on  which  she  died.  He 
did  not  keep  it  as  a  day  of  mourning — for  he  was  happy  in  as 
good  a  wife  as  ever  man  had,  and  cheerfully  went  about  the 
work  of  liis  farm.  But  towards  the  darkening  "he  appeared  to 
grow  very  sad  about  something,"  and  wandered  out  of  doors 
into  the  barn-yard,  where  his  Jean  found  him  lying  on  some 
straw  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  shining  star  "like  another 
moon." 

*•  Thou  lingering  star,  with  less'ning  ray. 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn. 
Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
0  Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast !" 

He  wrote  them  all  down  just  as  they  now  are,  in  their  immortal 
beauty,  and  gave  them  to  his  wife.  Jealousy  may  be  felt  even 
of  the  dead.  But  such  sorrow  as  this  the  more  endeared  her 
husband  to  her  heart — a  heart  ever  faithful — and  at  times  when 
she  needed  to  practise  that  hardest  of  all  virtues  in  a  wife — for- 
giving ;  but  here  all  he  desired  was  her  sympathy — and  he 
found  it  in  some  natural  tears. 

William  Burnes  was  now — so  writes  Robert  to  one  of  his 
cousins — "in  his  own  opinion,  and  indeed  in  almost  everybody's 
else,  in  a  dying  condition," — far  gone  in  a  consumption,  as  it 
was  called ;  but  dying,  though  not  sixty,  of  old  age  at  last. 
His  lot  in  this  life  was  in  many  things  a  hard  one,  but  his  bless- 
ings had  been  great,  and.  his  end  was  peace.  All  his  children 
had  been  dutiful  to  their  parents,  and  to  their  care  he  confided 
their  mother.  If  he  knew  of  Robert's  transgressions  in  one 
year,  he  likewise  knew  of  his  obedience  through  many  ;  nor 
feared  that  he  would  strive  to  the  utmost  to  shelter  his  mother  in 
the  storm.  Robert  writes,  "  On  the  13th  current  (Feb.,  1784)  I 
lost  the  best  of  fathers.  Though  to  be  sure,  we  have  had  long  ' 
warning  of  the  impending  stroke,  still  the  feelings  of  nature 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  17 

claim  their  part ;  and  I  cannot  recollect  the  tender  endearments 
and  parental  lessons  of  the  best  of  friends,  and  the  ablest  of 
instructors,  without  feeling  what  perhaps  the  calmer  dictates  of 
reason  would  partly  condemn.  I  hope  my  father's  friends  in 
your  country  will  not  let  their  connection  in  this  place  die  with 
him.  For  my  part  I  shall  ever  with  pleasure,  with  pride, 
acknowledge  my  connection  with  those  who  were  allied,  by  the 
ties  of  blood  and  friendship,  to  a  man  whose  memory  I  will  ever 
honor  and  revere."     And  now  the  family  remove  to   Mossgiel, 

"  A  virtuous  household  but  exceeding  poor." 

How  fared  Burns  during  the  next  two  years,  as  a  peasant  ? 
How  fared  he  as  a  poet  ?  As  a  peasant,  poorly  and  hardly — as 
a  poet,  greatly  and  gloriously.  How  fared  he  as  a  man  ?  Read 
his  confessions.  Mossgiel  was  the  coldest  of  all  the  soils  on 
which  the  family  had  slaved  and  starved — starved  is  too  strong 
a  word — and,  in  spite  of  its  ingratitude,  its  fields  are  hallowed 
ground.  Thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  have  come  afar  to 
look  on  them ;  and  Wordsworth's  self  has  "  gazed  himself 
away  "  on  the  pathetic  prospect. 

"  '  There,'  said  a  stripling,  pointing  with  much  pride, 
Towards  a  low  roof,  with  green  trees  half-concealed, 
'  Is  Mossgiel  farm  ;  and  that's  the  very  field 

Where  Burns  plough'd  up  the  Daisy.'     Far  and  wide  *„IPiifr 

A  plain  below  stretched  seaward,  while,  descried 
Above  sea-clouds,  the  peaks  of  Arran  rose ; 
And,  by  that  simple  notice,  the  repose 
Of  earth,  sky,  sea,  and  air,  was  vivified. 
Beneath  the  random  bield  of  clod  or  stone, 
Myriads  of  daisies  have  shone  forth  in  flower  H 

Near  the  lark's  nest,  and  in  their  natural  hour 
Have  passed  away  ;  less  happy  than  the  one 
That,  by  the  unwilling  ploughshare,  died  to  prove 
The  tender  charm  of  poetry  and  love." 

Peasant — Poet — Man — is,  indeed,  an  idle  distinction.     Burns 
is  sitting  alone  in  the  Auld  Clay-Biggin,  for  it  has  its  one  re- 
tired room ;  and  as  he  says,  "  half-mad,  half  fed,  half-sarkit  " — 
all  he  had  made  by  rhyme  !     He  is  the  picture  of  a  desponding 
3 


.18  THE  GENIUS  AND 


man,  steeped  to  the  lips  in  poverty  of  his  own  bringing  on,  and 
with  a  spirit  vainly  divided  between  hard  realities,  and  high 
hopes  beyond  his  reach,  resolving  at  last  to  forswear  all  delu- 
sive dreams,  and  submit  to  an  ignoble  lot.  When  at  once,  out 
of  the  gloom  arises  a  glory,  effused  into  form  by  his  own  genius 
creative  according  to  his  soul's  desire,  and  conscious  of  its  great- 
ness, despite  of  despair.  A  thousand  times  before  now  had  he 
been  so  disquieted  and  found  no  comfort.  But  the  hour  had 
come  of  self-revelation,  and  he  knew  that  on  earth  his  name 
was  to  live  for  ever. 

"  All  hail !  my  own  inspired  bard  ! 
In  me  thy  native  muse  regard ! 
Nor  longer  mourn  thy  fate  is  hard, 

Thus  poorly  low  ! 
I  come  to  give  thee  such  reward 

As  we  bestow. 

"  Know,  the  great  genius  of  this  land 
Has  many  a  light,  aerial  band, 
Who,  all  beneath  his  high  command,  *^^' 

Harmoniously, 
As  arts  or  arms  they  understand, 

Their  labors  ply. 


**  Of  these  am  I — Coila  my  name ; 
And  this  district  as  mine  I  claim, 
Where  once  the  Campbells,  chief  of  fame. 

Held  ruling  power : 
I  mark'd  thy  embryo  tuneful  flame. 

Thy  natal  hour. 

"With  future  hope,  I  oft  would  gaze 
Fond,  on  thy  little  early  ways, 
Thy  rudely  caroll'd  chiming  phrase, 

In  uncouth  rhymes, 
Fir'd  at  the  simple,  artless  lays 

Of  other  times. 

**  I  saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore, 
Delighted  with  the  dashing  roar ; 
Or  when  the  north  his  fleecy  store 

Drove  through  the  sky. 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  t» 

I  saw  grim  nature's  visage  hoar 

Struck  thy  young  eye, 

**  Or,  when  the  deep  green-mantl'd  earth 
Warm  cherish'd  every  flow'ret's  birth. 
And  joy  and  music  pouring  forth 

In  ev'ry  grove,  * 

I  saw  thee  eye  the  gen'ral  mirth 

With  boundless  love. 

i 

*•  When  ripen'd  fields,  and  azure  skies,  ™ 

CallM  forth  the  reaper's  rustling  noise, 
I  saw  thee  leave  their  evening  joys. 

And  lonely  stalk. 
To  vent  thy  bosom's  swelling  rise 

In  pensive  walk. 

*•  When  youthful  love,  warm-blushing  strong. 
Keen-shivering  shot  thy  nerves  along. 
Those  accents,  grateful  to  thy  tongue 

Th'  adored  JVame, 
I  taught  thee  how  to  pour  in  song, 
#^  To  soothe  thy  flame. 

"  I  saw  thy  pulse's  maddening  play, 
Wild  send  thee  pleasure's  devious  way. 
Misled  by  fancy's  meteor  ray, 

By  passion  driven  j 
But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 

Was  light  from  heaven. 


•  To  give  my  counsels  all  in  one 
Thy  tuneful  flame  still  careful  fan ; 
Preserve  the  dignity  of  man, 

With  soul  erect : 
And  trust  the  Universal  Plan 

Will  all  protect. 

•  Jlnd  wear  thou  this — she  solemn  said, 
And  bound  the  Holly  round  my  head: 
The  polish'd  leaves,  and  berries  red. 

Did  rustling  play ; 
And,  like  a  passing  thought,  she  fled 
In  light  away." 


20  THE   GENIUS  AND 


"  To  reconcile  to  our  imagination  the  entrance  of  an  aerial 
being  into  a  mansion  of  this  kind,"  says  the  excellent  Currie, 
"  required  the  powers  of  Burns  ;  he,  however,  succeeds."  Burns 
cared  not  at  that  time  for  our  imagination — not  he,  indeed — not 
a  straw ;  nor  did  he  so  much  as  know  of  our  existence.  He 
knew  that  there  was  a  human  race  ;  and  he  believed  that  he  was 
born  to  be  a  great  power  among  them,  especially  all  over  his 
beloved  and  beloving  Scotland.  "  All  hail !  my  own  inspired 
bard  !"  That  "  all  hail !"'  he  dared  to  hear  from  supernatural 
lips,  but  not  till  his  spirit  had  long  been  gazing,  and  long  been 
listening  to  one  commissioned  by  the  "  genius  of  the  land,"  to 
stand  a  Vision  before  her  chosen  poet  in  his  hut.  Reconcile  her 
entrance  to  our  imagination !  Into  no  other  mansion  but  that 
"  Auld  Clay  Biggin,"  would  Coila  have  descended  from  the  sky. 

The  critic  continues,  "  To  the  painting  on  her  mantle,  on 
which  is  depicted  the  most  striking  scenery,  as  well  as  the  most 
distinguished  characters  of  his  native  country,  some  exception 
may  be  made.  The  mantle  of  Coila,  like  the  cup  of  Thyrsis 
(see  the  first  Idyllium  of  Theocritus),  and  the  shield  of  Achilles, 
is  too  much  crowded  with  figures,  and  some  of  the  objects  re- 
presented upon  it  are  scarcely  admissible  according  to  the  prin- 
ciples of  design." 

We  advise  you  not  to  see  the  first  Idyllium  of  Theocritus. 
Perhaps  you  have  no  Greek.  Mr.  Chapman's  translation  is  as 
good  as  a  translation  can  well  be,  but  then  you  may  not  have  a 
copy  of  it  at  hand.  A  pretty  wooden  cup  it  is,  with  curled  ears 
and  ivy-twined  lips — embossed  thereon  the  figure  of  a  woman 
with  flowing  robes  and  a  Lydian  head-dress,  to  whom  two  angry 
men  are  making  love.  Hard  by,  a  stout  old  fisherman  on  a  rock 
is  in  the  act  of  throwing  his  net  into  the  sea  :  not  far  from  him 
is  a  vineyard,  where  a  boy  is  sitting  below  a  hedge  framing  a 
locust  trap  with  stalks  of  asphodel,  and  guarding  the  grapes 
from  a  couple  of  sly  foxes.  Thyrsis,  we  are  told  by  Theocritus, 
bought  it  from  a  Calydonian  Skipper  for  a  big  cheese-cake  and 
a  goat.     We  must  not  meddle  with  the  shield  of  Achilles. 

Turn  we  then  to  the  "  Vision  "  of  Burns,  our  Scottish  Theo- 
critus, as  we  have  heard  him  classically  called,  and  judge  of 
Dr.  Currie's  sense  in  telling  us  to  see  the  cup  of  Thyrsis. 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  21 


"  Down  flow'd  her  robe,  a  tartan  sheen ; 
Till  half  her  leg  was  scrimply  seen ; 
And  such  a  leg  !  my  bonnie  Jean 

Could  only  peer  it ; 
Sae  straught,  sae  taper,  tight,  and  clean, 

Nane  else  could  near  it." 

You  observe  Burns  knew  not  yet  who  stood  before  him — woman, 
or  angel,  or  fairy — but  the  Vision  reminded  him  of  her  whom 
best  he  loved. 

**  Green,  slender,  leaf-clad  holly-boughs 
Were  twisted  gracefu'  round  her  brows  ; 
I  took  her  for  some  Scottish  Muse, 

By  that  same  token." 

Some  Scottish  Muse — but  which  of  them  he  had  not  leisure  to 
conjecture,  so  lost  was  he  in  admiration  of  that  mystic  robe — 
"  that  mantle  large,  of  greenish  hue."  As  he  continued  to  gaze 
on  her,  his  imagination  beheld  whatever  it  chose  to  behold.  The 
region  dearest  to  the  Poet's  heart  is  all  emblazoned  there — and 
there  too  its  sages  and  its  heroes. 

**  Here,  rivers  in  the  sea  were  lost ; 

There,  mountains  to  the  skies  were  tost : 
Here,  tumbling  billows  mark'd  the  coast. 

With  surging  foam : 
There,  distant  shone  Art's  lofty  boast. 

The  lordly  dome. 

"  Here,  Doon  pour'd  down  his  far-fetch'd  floods  ; 
There,  well-fed  Irvine  stately  thuds  : 
Auld  hermit  Ayr  staw  thro'  his  woods, 

On  to  the  shore  ; 
And  many  a  lesser  torrent  scuds, 

With  seeming  roar. 

**  Low,  in  a  sandy  valley  spread, 
An  ancient  borough  rear'd  her  head ; 
Still,  as  in  Scottish  story  read. 

She  boasts  a  race. 
To  ev'ry  nobler  virtue  bred. 

And  polish'd  grace 


THE  GENIUS  AND 


*'  By  stately  tow'r  or  palace  fair. 
Or  ruins  pendent  in  the  air, 
Bold  stems  of  heroes,  here  and  there, 
"i|^  I  could  discern  ; 

Some  seemed  to  muse,  some  saem'd  to  dare. 
With  feature  stern. 

"  My  heart  did  glowing  transport  feel. 
To  see  a  race  heroic  wheel, 
^;f  And  brandish  round  the  deep-dyed  steel 

W  In  sturdy  blows  ; 

While  back  recoiling  seem'd  to  reel 
Their  suthorn  foes. 

"  His  Country's  Saviour,  mark  him  well ! 
Bold  Richardton's  heroic  swell : 
The  chief  on  Sark  who  glorious  fell. 

In  high  command ; 
And  he  whom  ruthless  fates  expel 
His  native  land. 

"  There,  where  a  scepter'd  Pictish  shade, 
Stalk'd  round  his  ashes  lowly  laid, 
I  mark'd  a  martial  race,  portray'd 

In  colors  strong ; 
Bold,  soldier-featur'd,  undismayed 

They  strode  along." 

What  have  become  of  "  the  laws  of  design  ?"  But  would 
good  Dr.  Currie  have  dried  up  the  sea  !  How  many  yards,  will 
anybody  tell  us,  were  in  that  green  mantle  ?  And  what  a  pat- 
tern  !  Thomas  Campbell  knew  better  what  liberty  is  allowed 
by  nature  to  Imagination  in  her  inspired  dreams.  In  his  noble 
Stanzas  to  the  memory  of  Burns,  he  says,  in  allusion  to  "  The 
Vision," 

"Him,  in  his  clay-built  cot  the  Muse 
Entranced,  and  showed  him  all  the  forma 

Of  fairy  light  and  wizard  gloom. 
That  only  gifted  poet  views,— 

The  genii  of  the  floods  and  storms. 
And  martial  shades  from  glory's  tomb." 

The  Fata  Morgana  are  obedient  to  the  laws  of  perspective, 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


and  of  optics  in  general ;  but  they  belong  to  the  material  ele- 
ments of  nature;  this  is  a  spiritual  creation,  and  Burns  is  its 
maker.  It  is  far  from  perfect,  either  in  design  or  execution ; 
but  perfection  is  found  nowhere  here  below,  except  in  Shak- 
speare ;  and,  if  the  Vision  offend  you,  we  fear  your  happiness 
will  not  be  all  you  could  desire  it  even  in  the  Tempest  or  the 
Midsummer's  Night's  Dream. 

How  full  of  fine  poetry  are  one  and  all  of  his  Epistles  to  his 
friends  Sillar,  Lapraik,  Simpson,  Smith, — worthy  men  one  and 
all,  and  among  them  much  mother-wit  almost  as  good  as  genius, 
and  thought  to  be  genius  by  Burns,  who  in  the  generous  enthu- 
siasm of  his  nature  exaggerated  the  mental  gifts  of  everybody 
he  loved,  and  conceived  their  characters  to  be  "  accordant  to 
his  soul's  desire."  His  "  Epistle  to  Davie  "  was  among  the 
very  earliest  of  his  productions,  and  Gilbert's  favorable  opinion 
of  it  suggested  to  him  the  first  idea  of  becoming  an  author. 
"  It  was,  I  think,  in  summer  1784,  when  in  the  interval  of  hard 
labor,  he  and  I  were  reading  in  the  garden  (kail-yard),  that  he 
repeated  to  me  the  principal  parts  of  this  Epistle."  It  breathes 
a  noble  spirit  of  independence,  and  of  proud  contentment  dally- 
ing with  the  hardships  of  its  lot,  and  in  the  power  of  manhood 
regarding  the  riches  that  are  out  of  its  reach,  without  a  particle 
of  envy,  and  with  a  haughty  scorn.  True  he  says,  ^"  I  hanker 
and  canker  to  see  their  cursed  pride ;"  but  he  immediately 
bursts  out  into  a  strain  that  gives  the  lie  to  his  own  words  : 


**  What  tho',  like  commoneTS  of  air, 
We  wander  out,  we  know  not  where. 

But  either  house  or  hall  ? 
Yet  nature's  charms,  the  hills  and  woods, 
The  sweeping  vales,  and  foaming  floods. 

Are  free  alike  to  all. 
In  days  when  daisies  deck  the  ground. 

And  blackbirds  whistle  clear, 
With  honest  joy  our  hearts  will  bound, 
To  see  the  coming  year : 
On  braes  when  we  please,  then, 

We'll  sit  an'  sowth  a  tune ; 
Syne  rhyme  till't,  wee'l  time  till't,. 
And  sing't  when  we  hae  done. 


♦ 


THE  GENIUS  AND 


"  It's  no  in  titles  nor  in  rank ; 
It's  no  in  wealth  like  Lon'on  bank. 
To  purchase  peace  and  rest ; 
IP^  It's  no  in  makin'  muckle  mair ; 

It's  no  in  books,  it's  no  in  lear. 

To  make  us  truly  blest ; 
If  happiness  hae  not  her  seat     . 

And  centre  in  the  breast, 
We  may  be  wise,  or  rich,  or  great. 
But  never  can  be  blest ; 
Nae  treasures,  nor  pleasures. 

Could  make  us  happy  lang ; 
The  heart  ay's  the  part  ay, 

That  makes  us  right  or  wrang." 

Through  all  these  Epistles  we  hear  him  exulting  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  his  own  genius,  and  pouring  out  his  anticipations  in 
verses  so  full  of  force  and  fire,  that  of  themselves  they  privilege 
him  to  declare  himself  a  Poet  after  Scotland's  own  heart.  Not 
even  in  "  The  Vision"  does  he  kindle  into  brighter  transports, 
when  foreseeing  his  fame,  and  describing  the  fields  of  its  glory, 
than  in  his  Epistle  to  the  schoolmaster  of  Ochiltree  ;  for  all  his 
life  he  associated  with  schoolmasters — finding  along  with  know- 
ledge, talent,  and  integrity,  originalit}-'  and  strength  of  character 
prevalent  in  that  meritorious  and  ill-rewarded  class  of  men. 
What  can^be  finer  than  this  ? 

"  We'll  sing  auld  Coila's  plains  an'  fells. 
Her  moors  red-brown  wi'  heather  bells. 
Her  banks  an'  braes,  her  dens  and  dells. 

Where  glorious  Wallace 
Aft  bare  the  gree,  as  story  tells, 

Frae  southern  billies, 

"  At  Wallace'  name  what  Scottish  blood 
But  boils  up  in  a  spring-tide  flood  ! 
Oft  have  our  fearless  fathers  strode 
^  By  Wallace'  side, 

^  Still  pressing  onward,  red-wat-shod. 

Or  glorious  dy'd. 


•  0,  sweet  are  Coila's  haughs  an'  woods, 
When  lintwhitas  chaunt  amang  the  buds. 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


And  jinkin  hares,  in  amorous  whids, 

Their  loves  enjoy, 
While  thro'  the  braes  the  cushat  croods 

With  wailful  cry ! 

**  Ev'n  winter  bleak  has  charms  for  me 
When  winds  rave  thro'  the  naked  tree ; 
Or  frosts  on  hills  of  Ochiltree 

Are  hoary  grey ; 
Or  blinding  drifts  wild-furious  flee, 

Dark'ning  the  day. 

**  0  Nature  !  a'  thy  shows  an'  forms 
To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  hae  charms  ! 
Whether  the  simmer  kindly  warms 

Wi'  life  an'  light. 
Or  winter  howls,  in  gusty  storms, 

I'he  lang,  dark  night ! 

**  The  Muse,  nae  poet  ever  fand  her. 
Till  by  himsel'  he  learn'd  to  wander, 
*  ^  Adown  some  trotting  burn's  meander. 

An'  no  think  lang ; 
Or  sweet  to  stray,  an'  pensive  ponder 

A  heart-felt  sang !" 

It  has  been  thoughtlessly  said  that  Burns  had  no  very  deep 
Ifive  of  nature,  and  that  he  has  shown  no  very  great  power  as  a 
descriptive  poet.  The  few  lines  quoted  suffice  to  set  aside  that 
assertion  ;  but  it  is  true  that  his  love  of  nature  was  always 
linked  with  some  vehement  passion  or  some  sweet  affection  for 
living  creatures,  and  that,  it  was  for  the  sake  of  the  humanity 
she  cherishes  in  her  bosom,  that  she  was  dear  to  him  as  his  own 
life-blood.  His  love  of  nature  by  being  thus  restricted  was  the 
more  intense.  Yet  there  are  not  wanting  passages  that  show 
how  exquisite  was  his  perception  of  her  beauties  even  when  un- 
associated  with  any  definite  emotion,  and  inspiring  only  that 
pleasure  which  we  imbibe  through  the  senses  into  our  unthink- 
ing souls.  H . 

"  Whyles  owre  a  linn  the  burnie  plays. 
As  through  the  glen  it  wimpl't ; 
Whyles  round  a  rocky  scar  it  strays ; 
Whyles  in  a  wiel  it  dimpl't; 

• 


20  THE  GENIUS  AND 


Whyles  glittered  to  the  nightly  rays, 
Wi'  bickering,  dancing  dazzle ; 

Whyles  cookit  underneath  the  braes, 
jm  Below  the  spreading  hazel, 

^^  Unseen  that  night." 

Such  pretty  passages  of  pure  description  arc  rare,  and  the 
charm  of  this  one  depends  on  its  sudden  sweet  intrusion  into  the 
very  midst  of  a  scene  of  noisy  merriment.  But  there  are 
many  passages  in  which  the  descriptive  power  is  put  forth  under 
the  influence  of  emotion  so  gentle  that  they  come  within  that 
kind  of  composition  in  which  it  has  been  thought  Burns  does  not 
excel.     As  for  example, 

*•  Nae  mair  the  flower  on  field  or  meadow  springs ; 
Nae  mair  the  grove  with  airy  concert  rings. 
Except  perhaps  the  Robin's  whistling  glee. 
Proud  o'  the  height  o'  some  bit  half-lang  tree ; 
The  hoary  morns  precede  the  sunny  days, 
Mild,  calm,  serene,  wide  spreads  the  noon-tide  blaze, 
While  thick  the  gossamour  waves  wanton  in  the  rays." 

Seldom  setting  himself  to  describe  visual  objects,  but  when  he 
is  under  strong  emotion,  he  seems  to  have  taken  considerable 
pains  when  he  did,  to  produce  something  striking  ;  and  though 
he  never  fails  on  such  occasions  to  do  so,  yet  he  is  sometimes 
ambitious  overmuch,  and,  though  never  feeble,  becomes  bom- 
bastic, as  in  his  lines  on  the  Fall  of  Fyers  : 

**  And  viewless  echo's  ear  astojiished  rends." 

In  the  "  Brigs  of  Ayr"  there  is  one  beautiful,  and  one  magnifi- 
cent passage  of  this  kind. 

"  All  before  their  sight, 
A  fairy  train  appear'd  in  order  bright  : 
Adown  the  glittering  stream  they  featly  danc'd ; 
Bright  to  the  moon  their  various  dresses  glanc'd: 
They  footed  o'er  the  wat'ry  glass  so  neat. 
The  infant  ice  scarce  bent  beneath  their  feet : 
While  arts  of  Minstrelsy  among  them  rung. 
And  soul-ennobling  Bards  heroic  ditties  sung.*' 


<S^' 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  27 

He  then  breaks  ofl  in  celebration  of  **  M'Lauchlan,  thairm-in- 
spiring  sage,"  that  is,  "a  well-known  performer  of  Scottish 
music  on  the  violin,"  and  returns,  at  his  leisure,  to  the  fairies  f 

The  other  passage  which  we  have  called  magnificent  is  a  de- 
scription of  a  spate.  But  in  it,  it  is  true,  he  personates  the  Auld 
Brig,  and  is  inspired  by  wrath  and  contempt  of  the  New. 

"  Conceited  gowk  !  pufF'd  up  wi'  windy  pride ! 
This  monie  a  year  Pve  stood  the  flood  an'  tide ; 
And  tho'  wi'  crazy  eild  I'm  sair  forfairn, 
ril  be  a  Brig,  when  ye're  as  hapeless  cairn  ! 
As  yet  ye  little  ken  about  the  matter, 
But  twa-three  winters  will  inform  you  better. 
When  heavy,  dark,  continued,  a' -day  rains, 
Wi'  deepening  deluges  o'erflow  the  plains; 
When  from  the  hills  where  springs  the  brawling  Coil, 
Or  stately  Lugar's  mossy  fountains  boil. 
Or  where  the  Greenock  winds  his  moorland  course. 
Or  haunted  Garpal  draws  his  feeble  source, 
Arous'd  by  blust'ring  winds  an'  spotting  thowes. 
In  mony  a  torrent  down  his  sna-broo  rowes ; 
While  crashing  ice,  borne  on  the  roaring  speat. 
Sweeps  dams,  an'  mills,  an'  brigs,  a'  to  the  gate ; 
And  from  Glenbuck,  down  to  the  Ratton-key, 
Auld  Ayr  is  just  one  lengthen'd,  tumbling  sea ; 
Then  down  ye'll  hurl,  deil  nor  ye  never  rise ! 
And  dash  the  gumlie  jaups  up  to  the  pouring  skies." 

Perhaps  we  have  dwelt  too  long  on  this  point ;  but  the  truth 
is  that  Burns  would  have  utterly  despised  most  of  what  is  now 
dignified  with  the  name  of  poetry,  where  harmlessly  enough 

*'  Pure  description  takes  the  place  of  sense ;  '* 

but  far  worse,  where  the  agonizing  artist  intensifies  himself  into 
genuine  convulsions  at  the  shrine  of  nature,  or  acts  the  epileptio 
to  extort  alms.  The  world  is  beginning  to  lose  patience  with 
such  idolaters,  and  insists  on  being  allowed  to  see  the  sun  set 
with  her  own  eyes,  and  with  her  own  ears  to  hear  the  sea.  Why, 
there  is  often  more  poetry  in  five  lines  of  Burns  than  any  fifty 
volumes  of  the  versifiers  who  have  had  the  audacity  to  criticiso 
him — as  by  way  of  specimen — 


THE  GENIUS  AND 


'"When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure, 
Sharp  shivers  thro'  the  leafless  bow'r ; 
When  Phoebus  gies  a  short-liv'd  glow'r 

Far  south  the  lift, 
Dim-dark'ning  thro'  the  flaky  show'r  ^ 

Or  whirling  drift : 

"  Ae  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rock'd. 
Poor  labor  sweet  in  sleep  was  lock'd, 
While  burns,  wi'  snawy  wreeths  up-chock'd. 

Wild-eddying  swirl. 
Or  thro'  the  mining  outlet  bock'd, 

Down  headlong  hurl." 

"  Halloween  "  is  now  almost  an  obsolete  word — and  the  live- 
liest of  all  festivals,  that  used  to  usher  in  the  winter  with  one 
long  night  of  mirthful  mockery  of  superstitious  fancies,  not  unat- 
tended with  stirrings  of  imaginative  fears  in  many  a  simple 
breast,  is  gone  with  many  other  customs  of  the  good  old  time, 
not  among  town-folks  only,  but  dwellers  in  rural  parishes  far 
withdrawn  from  the  hum  of  crowds,  where  all  such  rites  origi- 
nate and  latest  fall  into  desuetude.  The  present  wise  generation 
of  youngsters  can  care  little  or  nothing  about  a  poem  which 
used  to  drive  their  grandfathers  and  grandmothers  half-mad  with 
merriment  when  boys  and  girls,  gathered  in  a  circle  round  some 
choice  reciter,  who,  though  perhaps  endowed  with  no  great 
memory  for  grammar,  had  half  of  Burns  by  heart.  Many  of 
them,  doubtless,  are  of  opinion  that  it  is  a  silly  affair.  So  must 
think  the  more  aged  march-of-mind  men  who  have  outgrown  the 
whims  and  follies  of  their  ill-educated  youth,  and  become  in- 
structors  in  all  manner  of  wisdom.  In  practice  extinct  to  elderly 
people  it  survives  in  poetry  ;  and  there  the  body  of  the  harmless 
superstition,  in  its  very  form  and  pressure,  is  embalmed.  "  Hal- 
loween "  was  thought,  surely  you  all  know  that,  to  be  a  night 
"when  witches,  devils,  and  other  mischief-making  beings, 
are  all  abroad  on  their  baneful  midnight  errands ;  particularly 
those  aerial  people,  the  fairies,  are  said  on  that  night  to  hold  a 
grand  anniversary."  So  writes  Burns  in  a  note;  but  in  the 
poem  evil  spirits  are  disarmed  of  all  their  terrors,  and  fear  is 
fun.  It  might  have  begun  well  enough,  and  nobody  would  have 
found  fault,  with 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


n. 


"  Some  merry,  friendly,  kintra  folks,  ^ 

Together  did  convene,  W 

To  burn  their  nits,  an'  pou  their  stocks. 
An'  haud  their  Halloween 

Fu'  blythe  this  night;" 

but  Burns,  by  a  few  beautiful   introductory  lines,  brings  the 
festival  at  once  within  the  world  of  poetry. 

**  Upon  that  night,  when  fairies  light. 
On  Cassilis  Downans  dance. 
Or  owre  the  lays,  in  splendid  blaze. 

On  sprightly  coursers  prance ; 
Or  for  Colean  the  route  is  ta'en. 

Beneath  the  moon's  pale  beams ; 
There,  up  the  cove,  to  stray  an'  rove 
Amang  the  rocks  and  streams 

To  sport  that  night 

**  Amang  the  bonnie  winding  banks. 
Where  Doon  rins,  wimpling  clear. 
Where  Bruce  ance  rul'd  the  martial  ranks 
And  shook  his  Carrick  spear." 

Then  instantly  he  collects  the  company — the  business  of  the 
evening  is  set  a-going — each  stanza  has  its  new  actor  and  its 
new  charm — the  transitions  are  as  quick  as  it  is  in  the  power  of 
winged  words  to  fly ;  female  characters  of  all  ages  and  disposi- 
tions, from  the  auld  guid-wife  "  wha  fuft  her  pipe  wi'  sic  a  lunt," 
to  wee  Jenny  "  wi'  her  little  skelpie  limmer's  face  " — Jean,  Nell, 
Merran,  Meg,  maidens  all — and  "  wanton  widow  Leezie  " — 
figure  each  in  her  own  individuality  animated  into  full  life,  by 
a  few  touches.  Nor  less  various  the  males,  from  hav'rel  Will 
to  "  auld  uncle  John  wha  wedlock's  joys  sin'  Mar's  year  did 
desire  " — Rab  and  Jock,  and  "  fechtin  Jamie  Fleck  "  like  all 
bullies  "  cooard  afore  bogles ;  "  the  only  pause  in  their  fast- 
following  proceedings  being  caused  by  garrulous  grannie's  pious 
reproof  of  Jenny  for  daurin  to  try  sic  sportin  "  as  eat  the  apple 
at  the  glass  " — a  reproof  proving  that  her  own  wrinkled  breast 
holds  many  queer  memories  of  lang-syne  Halloweens ; — all  the 
carking  cares  of  the  work-day  world  are  clean  forgotten ;  the 
hopes,  fears  and  wishes  that  most  agitate  every  human  breast, 


30  THE  GENIUS  AND 


and  are  by  the  simplest  concealed,  here  exhibit  themselves  with- 
out disguise  in  the  freedom  not  only  permitted  but  inspired  by 
the  passion  that  rules  the  night — "  the  passion,"  says  the  poet 
himself,  "  of  prying  into  futurity,  which  makes  a  striking  part 
of  the  history  of  human  nature  in  its  rude  state,  in  all  ages  and 
nations ;  and  it  may  be  some  entertainment  to  a  philosophic 
mind,  if  any  such  should  honor  the  author  with  a  perusal,  to  see 
the  remains  of  it,  among  the  more  unenlightened  of  our  own." 

But  how  have  we  been  able  to  refrain  from  saying  a  few 
words  about  the  Cottar's  Saturday  Night  ?  How  affecting  Gil- 
bert's account  of  its  origin  ! 

*'  Robert  had  frequently  remarked  to  me  that  he  thought  there 
was  something  peculiarly  venerable  in  the  phrase,  '  Let  us  wor- 
ship God,'  used  by  a  decent  sober  head  of  a  family  introducing 
family  worship.  To  this  sentiment  of  the  author  the  world  is 
indebted  for  the  Cottar's  Saturday  Night.  The  hint  of  the 
plan,  and  title  of  the  poem,  were  taken  from  Ferguson's  Farm- 
er^i  Ingle.  When  Robert  had  not  some  pleasure  in  view  in 
which  I  was  not  thought  fit  to  participate,  we  used  frequently 
to  walk  together,  when  the  weather  was  favorable,  on  the  Sunday 
afternoons  (those  precious  breathing-times  to  the  laboring  part 
of  the  community)  and  enjoyed  such  Sundays  as  would  make 
me  regret  to  see  their  number  abridged.  It  was  on  one  of  those 
walks  that  I  first  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  the  author  repeat 
the  Cottar^s  Saturday  Night.  I  do  not  recollect  to  have  read  or 
heard  anything  by  which  I  was  more  highly  electrified.^^  No 
wonder  Gilbert  was  highly  electrified  ;  for  though  he  had  read 
or  heard  many  things  of  his  brother  Robert's  of  equal  poetical 
power,  not  one  among  them  all  was  so  charged  with  those 
sacred  influences  that  connect  the  human  heart  with  heaven.  It 
must  have  sounded  like  a  very  revelation  of  all  the  holi- 
ness for  ever  abiding  in  that  familiar  observance,  but  which 
custom,  without  impairing  its  efficacy,  must  often  partially  hide 
from  the  children  of  labor  when  it  is  all  the  time  helping  to  sus- 
tain them  upon  and  above  this  earth.  And  this  from  the  erring 
to  the  steadfast  brother  !  From  the  troubled  to  the  quiet  spirit ! 
out  of  a  heart  too  often  steeped  in  the  waters  of  bitterness,  is- 
suing, as  from  an  unpolluted  fountain,  the  inspiration  of  pious 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  •      31 

song  !  But  its  effects  on  innumerable  hearts  is  not  now  electrical — 
it  inspires  peace.  It  is  felt  yet,  and  sadly  changed  will  then  be 
Scotland,  if  ever  it  be  not  felt,  by  every  one  who  peruses  it,  to 
be  a  communication  from  brother  to  brother.  It  is  felt  by  us, 
all  through  from  beginning  to  end,  to  be  Burns's  Cottar^s  Satur- 
day Ntght  ;  at  each  succeeding  sweet  or  solemn  stanza  we  more 
and  more  love  the  man — at  its  close  we  bless  him  as  a  benefac- 
tor ;  and  if,  as  the  picture  fades,  thoughts  of  sin  and  of  sorrow 
will  arise,  and  will  not  be  put  down,  let  them,  as  we  hope  for 
mercy,  be  of  our  own — not  his  ;  let  us  tremble  for  ourselves  as 
we  hear  a  voice  saying,  "  Fear  God  and  keep  his  command- 
ments.** 

There  are  few  more  perfect  poems.  It  is  the  utterance  of  a 
heart  whose  chords  were  all  tuned  to  gratitude,  "  making  sweet 
melody  '*  to  the  Giver,  on  a  night  not  less  sacred  in  His  eye  than 
His  own  appointed  Sabbath. 

*'  November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh  ; 

The  short'ning  winter  day  is  near  a  close  ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh  ; 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose ; 
The  toil  worn  Cottar  frae  his  labor  goes, 

This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes. 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend,  A 

And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  haiheward  bend." 

That  one  single  stanza  is  in  itself  a  picture,  one  may  say  a 
poem,  of  the  poor  man's  life.  It  is  so  imagined  on  the  eye  that 
we  absolutely  see  it ;  but  then  not  an  epithet  but  shows  the  con- 
dition on  which  he  holds,  and  the  heart  with  which  he  endures, 
and  enjoys  it.  Work  he  must  in  the  face  of  November ;  but 
God  who  made  the  year  shortens  and  lengthens  its  days  for  the 
sake  of  his  living  creatures,  and  has  appointed  for  them  all 
their  hour  of  rest.  The  "miry  beasts"  will  soon  be  at  supper 
in  their  clean-stra  wed  stalls — "the  black'ning  train  o' craws'* 
invisibly  hushed  on  their  rocking  trees  ;  and  he  whom  God  made 
after  his  own  image,  that  "  toil-worn  Cottar,"  he  too  may  lie 
down  and  sleep.  There  is  nothing  especial  in  his  lot  wherefore 
he  should  be  pitied,  nor  are  we  asked  to  pity  him,  as  he  "  col- 


32     •  THE  GENIUS  AND 


■' lects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes:"  many  of  us,  who 
have  work  to  do  and  do  it  not,  may  envy  his  contentment,  and 
•the  religion  that  gladdens  his  release — "hoping  the  morn  in 
ease  and  rest  to  spend,"  only  to  such  as  he,  in  truth,  a  Sabbath. 
"  Remember  that  thou  keep  holy  the  Sabbath  day.  Six  days 
shalt  thou  labor  and  do  all  that  thou  hast  to  do.  But  the 
seventh  day  is  the  Sabbath  of  the  Lord  thy  God.  In  it  thou 
shalt  do  no  manner  of  work  !"  O  !  that  man  should  ever  find  it 
in  his  heart  to  see  in  that  law  a  stern  obligation — not  a  merciful 
boon  and  a  blessed  privilege  ! 

In  those  times  family  worship  in  such  dwellings,  all  over 
Scotland,  was  not  confined  to  one  week-day.  It  is  to  be  believed 
that  William  Burnes  might  have  been  heard  by  his  son  Robert 
duly  every  night  saying,  "  Let  us  worship  God."  "  There  was 
something  peculiarly  venerable  in  the  phrase  "  every  time  he 
heard  it ;  but  on  "  Saturday  night "  family  worship  was  sur- 
rounded, in  its  solemnity,  with  a  gathering  of  whatever  is  most 
cheerful  and  unalloyed  in  the  lot  of  labor  ;  and  the  poet's  genius 
in  a  happy  hour  hearing  those  words  in  his  heart,  collected 
many  nights  into  one,  and  made  the  whole  observance,  as  it 
were,  a  religious  establishment,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  for  ever. 

"  The  fifth  and  sixth  stanzas,  and  the  eighteenth,"  says  Gil- 
bert, "  thrilled  with  peculiar  ecstasy  through  my  soul ;"  and 
**'  well  they  might ;  .for,  in  homeliest  words,  they  tell  at  once  of 
home's  familiar  doings  and  of  the  highest  thoughts  that  can 
ascend  in  supplication  to  the  throne  of  Gk)d.  What  is  the 
eighteenth  stanza,  and  why  did  it  too  "  thrill  with  peculiar  ecs- 
tasy my  soul  ?"  You  may  be  sure  that  whatever  thrilled 
Gilbert's  soul  will  thrill  yours  if  it  be  in  holy  keeping ;  for  he 
was  a  good  man,  and  walked  all  his  days  fearing  God. 

♦*  Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral  way ; 
The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest ; 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous  nest. 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow'ry  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  best, 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide : 
But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside.** 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  33 

Think  again  of  the  first  stanza  of  all — for  you  have  forgotten  it 
^-of  the  toil-worn  Cottar  collecting  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and 
his  hoes,  and  weary  o'er  the  moor  bending  his  course  home- 
wards. In  spite  of  his  hope  of  the  morn,  you  could  hardly  help 
looking  on  him  then  as  if  he  were  disconsolate — now  you  are 
prepared  to  believe,  with  the  poet,  that  such  brethren  are  among 
the  best  of  their  country's  sons,  that 

*'  From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs. 
That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home,  rever'd  abroad ;" 

and  you  desire  to  join  in  the  Invocation  that  bursts  from  his 
pious  and  patriotic  heart : 

"  O  Scotia  f  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil. 

Be  bless'd  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content! 
Il  And  O  !  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 

From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile ! 
Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while. 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much  lov'd  Isle. 

**  0  Thou  !  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 

That  streamM  through  Wallace's  undaunted  heart ; 
Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride. 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 
(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  thou  art. 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward !) 
O  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert : 
But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot  bard, 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard  !** 

We  said  there  are  few  more  perfect  poems.  The  expression 
is  hardly  a  correct  one  ;  but  in  two  of  the  stanzas  there  are 
lines  which  we  never  read  without  wishing  them  away,  and 
there  is  one  stanza  we  could  sometimes  almost  wish  away  alto- 
gether ;  the  sentiment,  though  beautifully  worded,  being  some- 
what harsh,  and  such  as  must  be  felt  to  be  unjust  by  many  de- 
vout and  pious  people : 


34  THE  GENIUS  AND 


"  They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise  ; 
They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim : 
Perhaps  Dundee's  wild  warbling  measures  rise, 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name ; 
Or  noble  Elgin  beats  the  heaven-ward  flame, 
^  The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays : 

Compared  with  these  Italian  trills  are  tame  ; 
The  tickPd  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise  ; 
JVae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise." 

We  do  not  find  fault  with  Burns  for  having  written  these  lines  : 
f*  for  association  of  feeling  with  feeling,  by  contrast,  is  perhaps  most 
f'  of  all  powerful  in  music.  Believing  that  there  was  no  devotional 
spirit  in  Italian  music^  it  was  natural  for  him  to  denounce  its 
employment  in  religious  services ;  but  we  all  know  that  it  can- 
not without  most  ignorant  violation  of  truth  be  said  of  the  hymns 
of  that  most  musical  of  all  people,  and  superstitious  as  they  may 
iibe,  among  the  most  devout,  that 

"  Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise." 

Our  objection  to  some  lines  in  another  stanza  is  more  serious, 
for  it  applies  not  to  a  feeling  but  a  judgment.  That  there  is 
more  virtue  in  a  cottage  than  in  a  palace  we  are  not  disposed  to 
deny  at  any  time,  least  of  all  when  reading  the  Cottar's  Saturday 
Night :  and  we  entirely  go  along  with  Burns  when  he  says, 

"  And  certes,  in  fair  virtue's  heavenly  road. 
The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind  j" 

but  there,  we  think,  he  ought  to  have  stopped,  or  illustrated  the 
truth  in  a  milder  manner  than 

"  What  is  a  lordling's  pomp  ?  a  cumbrous  load. 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind. 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined," 

'  Our  moral  nature  revolts  with  a  sense  of  injustice  from  the  com- 
parison of  the  wickedness  of  one  class  with  the  goodness  of  an- 
other ;  and  the  effect  is  the  very  opposite  of  that  intended,  the 
rising  up  of  a  miserable  conviction  that  for  a  while  had  been 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


laid  asleep,  that  vice  and  crime  are  not  excluded  from  cots,  but 
often,  alas !  are  found  there  in  their  darkest  colors  and  most 
portentous  forms. 

The  whole  stanza  we  had  in  our  mind  as  somehow  or  other 
not  entirely  delightful,  is 

**  Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide. 
Devotion's  every  grace  except  the  heart. 
The  Pow'r,  incens'd,  the  pageant  will  desert. 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole ; 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart. 

May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul ; 
And  in  his  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enrol." 

"  Let  us  join  in  the  worship  of  God  "  is  a  strong  desire  of  na- 
ture,  and  a  commanded  duty  ;  and  thus  are  brought  together, 
for  praise  and  prayer,  "  congregations  wide,"  in  all  populous 
places  of  every  Christian  land.  Superstition  is  sustained  by  the 
same  sympathy  as  religion— enlightenment  of  reason  being  es- 
sential to  faith.  There  sit,  every  Sabbath,  hundreds  of  hypo- 
crites, thousands  of  the  sincere,  tens  of  thousands  of  the  indifFer- 
ent — how  many  of  the  devout  or  how  few  who  shall  say  that  un- 
derstands the  meaning  o^  devotion?  If  all  be  false  and  hollow,  a 
mere  semblance  only,  then  indeed 

,  "  The  Pow'r  incens'd,  the  pageant  will  desert, 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole  ;  " 

but  if,  even  in  the  midst  of  "religion's  pride,"  there  be  humble 
and  contrite  hearts — if  a  place  be  found  for  the  poor  in  spirit 
even  "  in  gay  religions  full  of  pomp  and  gold  " — a  Christian 
poet  ought  to  guard  his  heart  against  scorn  of  the  ritual  of  any 
form  of  Christian  worship.  Be  it  performed  in  Cathedral,  Kirk, 
or  Cottage — God  regards  it  only  when  performed  in  spirit  and  in 
truth. 

Remember  all  this  poetry,  and  a  hundred  almost  as  fine  things 
besides,  was  composed  within  little  more  than  two  years,  by  a 
man  all  the  while  working  for  wages — seven  pounds  from  May- 
day to  May-day ;  and  that  he  never  idled  at  his  work,  but  mowed 


36  THE  GENIUS  AND 


and  ploughed  as  if  working  by  the  piece,  and  could  afford  there- 
fore, God  bless  his  heart,  to  stay  the  share  for  a  minute,  but  too 
late  for  the  "  wee,  sleekit,  cowrin,  timorous  beastie's "  nest. 
Folks  have  said  he  was  a  bad  farmer,  and  neglected  Mossgiel, 
an  idler  in  the  land. 

"  How  various  his  employments  whom  the  world 
Calls  idle  ! " 

Absent  in  the  body,  we  doubt  not,  he  frequently  was  from  his 
fields ;  oftenest  in  the  evenings  and  at  night.  Was  he  in  Nance 
Tinnock's  ?  She  knew  him  by  name  and  head-mark,  for  once 
seen  he  was  not  to  be  forgotten  ;  but  she  complained  that  he  had 
never  drunk  three  half-mutchkins  in  her  house,  whatever  he 
might  say  in  his  lying  poems.  In  Poussie  Nannie's — mother  of 
Racer  Jess? — He  was  there  once;  and  out  of  the  scum  and 
refuse  of  the  outcasts  of  the  lowest  grade  of  possible  being,  he 
constructed  a  Beggar's  Opera,  in  which  the  singers  and  dancers, 
drabs  and  drunkards  all,  belong  still  to  humanity ;  and  though 
huddling  together  in  the  filth  of  the  flesh,  must  not  be  classed, 
in  their  enjoyments,  with  the  beasts  that  perish.  In  the  Smiddy  ? 
Ay,  you  might  have  found  him  there,  at  times  when  he  had  no 
horse  to  be  shoed,  no  coulter  to  be  sharpened. 

"  When  Vulcan  gies  his  bellows  breath. 
An'  ploughmen  gather  wi'  their  graith, 
0  rare  !  to  see  thee  fizz  an'  freath 

I'  th'  luggit  caup  ! 
Then  Burnewin  comes  on  like  death 

At  every  chaup. 

"  Nae  mercy,  then,  for  aim  or  steel ; 
The  brawnie,  bainie,  ploughman  cheel, 
Brings  hand  owrehip,  wi'  sturdy  wheel. 
The  strong  forehammer. 
Till  block  an'  studdie  ring  an'  reel 

Wi'  dinsome  clamor." 

On  frozen  Muir-loch  ?  Among  the  curlers  "  a*  their  roaring 
play  " — roaring  is  the  right  word — but  'tis  not  the  bonspiel  only 
that  roars,  it  is  the  ice,  and  echo  tells  it  is  from  her  crags  that 
submit  not  to  the  snow.     There  king  of  his  rink  was  Rabbie 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  37 

Burns  to  be  found ;  and  at  night  in  the  Hostelry,  in  the  reek  of 
beef  and  greens  and  "  Scotch  drink,"  Apollo  in  the  shape  of  a 
ploughman  at  the  head  of  the  fir-table  that  dances  with  all  its 
glasses  to  the  horny  fists  clenching  with  cordial  thumpers  the 
sallies  of  wit  and  humor  volleying  from  his  lips  and  eyes,  unre- 
proved  by  the  hale  old  minister  who  is  happy  to  meet  his  parish- 
ioners out  of  the  pulpit,  and  by  his  presence  keeps  the  poet 
within  bounds,  if  not  of  absolute  decorum,  of  that  decency  be- 
coming men  in  their  most  jovial  mirth,  and  not  to  be  violated 
without  reproach  by  genius  in  its  most  wanton  mood  dallying 
even  with  forbidden  things.  Or  at  a  Rockin'  ?  An  evening 
meeting,  as  you  know,  "  one  of  the  objects  of  which,"  so  says 
the  glossary,  "  is  spinning  with  the  rock  or  distaff;  "  but  which 
has  many  other  objects,  as  the  dullest  may  conjecture,  when 
lads  and  lasses  have  come  flocking  from  "  behind  the  hills  where 
Stinchar  flows,  mang  muirs  and  mosses  many  o',"  to  one  soli- 
tary homestead  made  roomy  enough  for  them  all ;  and  if  now 
and  then  felt  to  be  too  close  and  crowded  for  the  elderly  people 
and  the  old,  not  unprovided  with  secret  spots  near  at  hand  in  the 
broom  and  the  brackens,  where  the  sleeping  lintwhites  sit  undis- 
turbed by  lovers'  whispers,  and  lovers  may  look,  ii  they  choose 
it,  unashamed  to  the  stars. 

And  what  was  he  going  to  do  with  all  this  poetry — poetry 
accumulating  fast  as  his  hand,  released  at  night  from  other  im- 
plements, could  put  it  on  paper,  in  bold,  round,  upright  charac- 
ters, that  tell  of  fingers  more  familiar  with  the  plough  than  the 
pen  ?  He  himself  sometimes  must  have  wondered  to  find  every 
receptacle  in  the  spence  crammed  with  manuscripts,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  many  others  floating  about  all  over  the  country, 
and  setting  the  smiddies  in  a  roar,  and  not  a  few,  of  which 
nothing  was  said,  folded  in  the  breast-kerchiefs  of  maidens,  put 
therein  by  his  own  hand  on  the  lea-rig,  beneath  the  milk-white 
thorn.    What  brought  him  out  into  the  face  of  day  as  a  Poet  ? 

Of  all  the  women  Burns  ever  loved,  Mary  Campbell  not  ex- 
cepted, the  dearest  to  him  by  far,  from  first  to  last,  was  Jean 
Armour.  During  composition  her  image  rises  up  from  his  heart 
before  his  eyes  the  instant  he  touches  on  any  thought  or  feeling 
with  which  she  could  be  in  any  way  connected  j  and  sometimes 


38  THE  GENIUS  AND 


bis  allusions  to  her  might  even  seem  out  of  place,  did  they  not 
please  us,  by  letting  us  know  that  he  could  not  altogether  forget 
her,  whatever  the  subject  his  muse  had  chosen.  Others  may 
have  inspired  more  poetical  strains,  but  there  is  an  earnestness 
in  his  fervors,  at  her  name,  that  brings  her  breathing  in  warm 
flesh  and  blood  to  his  breast.  Highland  Mary  he  would  have 
made  his  wife,  and  perhaps  broken  her  heart.  He  loved  her 
living,  as  a  creature  in  a  dream,  dead  as  a  spirit  in  heaven. 
But  Jean  Armour  possessed  his  heart  in  the  stormiest  season 
of  his  passions,  and  she  possessed  it  in  the  lull  that  preceded 
their  dissolution.  She  was  well  worthy  of  his  affection,  on  ac- 
count of  her  excellent  qualities ;  and  though  never  beautiful, 
had  many  personal  attractions.  But  Burns  felt  himself  bound 
to  her  by  that  inscrutable  mystery  in  the  soul  of  every  man,  by 
which  one  other  being,  and  one  only,  is  believed,  and  truly, 
to  be  essential  to  his  happiness  here, — without  whom,  life  is  not 
life.  Her  strict  and  stern  father,  enraged  out  of  all  religion, 
both  natural  and  revealed,  with  his  daughter  for  having  sinned 
with  a  man  of  sin,  tore  from  her  hands  her  marriage  lines  as 
she  besought  forgiveness  on  her  knees,  and  without  pity  for  the 
life  stirring  within  her,  terrified  her  into  the  surrender  and  re- 
nunciation of  the  title  of  wife,  branding  her  thereby  with  an  ab- 
horred name.  A  father's  power  is  sometimes  very  terrible,  and 
it  was  so  here  ;  for  she  submitted,  with  less  outward  show  of  agony 
than  can  be  well  understood,  and  Burns  almost  became  a  mad- 
man.  His  worldly  circumstances  were  wholly  desperate,  for 
bad  seasons  had  stricken  dead  the  cold  soil  of  Mossgiel ;  but  he 
was  willing  to  work  for  his  wife  in  ditches,  or  to  support  her  for 
a  while  at  home,  by  his  wages  as  a  negro-driver  in  the  West 
Indies. 

A  more  unintelligible  passage  than  this  never  occurred  in  the 
life  of  any  other  man,  certainly  never  a  more  trying  one;  and 
Burns  must  at  this  time  have  been  tormented  by  as  many  violent 
passions,  in  instant  succession  or  altogether,  as  the  human  heart 
could  hold.  In  verse  he  had  for  years  given  vent  to  all  his 
moods ;  and  his  brother  tells  us  that  the  Lament  was  composed 
"  after  the  first  distraction  of  his  feelings  had  a  little  subsided." 
Had  he  lost  her  by  death  he  would  have  been  dumb,  but  his 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  89 

grief  was  not  mortal,  and  it  grew  eloquent,  when  relieved  and 
sustained  from  prostration  by  other  passions  that  lift  up  the  head, 
if  it  be  only  to  let  it  sink  down  again,  rage,  pride,  indignation, 
jealousy,  and  scorn.  "  Never  man  loved,  or  rather  adored  wo- 
man more  than  I  did  her ;  and  to  confess  a  truth  between  you 
and  me,  I  do  still  love  her  to  distraction  after  all.  My  poor 
dear  unfortunate  Jean  !  It  is  not  the  losing  her  that  makes  me 
so  unhappy ;  but  for  her  sake  I  feel  most  severely ;  I  grieve  she 
is  in  the  road  to,  I  fear,  eternal  ruin.  May  Almighty  God  for- 
give her  ingratitude  and  perjury  to  me,  as  I  from  my  very  soul 
forgive  her  ;  and  may  his  grace  be  with  her,  and  bless  her  in 
all  her  future  life  !  I  can  have  no  nearer  idea  of  the  place  of 
eternal  punishment  than  what  I  have  felt  in  my  own  breast  on 
her  account.  I  have  tried  often  to  forget  her ;  I  have  run  into 
all  kinds  of  dissipation  and  riot,  mason-meetings,  drinking 
matches,  and  other  mischiefs,  to  drive  her  out  of  my  head,  but 
all  in  vain.  And  now  for  the  grand  cure  :  the  ship  is  on  her 
way  home,  that  is  to  take  me  out  to  Jamaica ;  and  then  fare- 
well, dear  old  Scotland !  and  farewell,  dear  ungrateful  Jean  ! 
for  never,  never  will  I  see  you  more.''  In  the  Lament,  there 
are  the  same  passions,  but  genius  has  ennobled  them  by  the  ten- 
derness and  elevation  of  the  finest  poetry,  guided  their  transi- 
tions by  her  solemnizing  power,  inspired  their  appeals  to  con- 
scious night  and  nature,  and  subdued  down  to  the  beautiful 
and  pathetic,  the  expression  of  what  had  else  been  agony  and 
despair. 

Twenty  pounds  would  enable  him  to  leave  Scotland,  and  take 
him  to  Jamaica  ;  and  to  raise  them,  it  occurred  to  Robert  Burns 
to  publish  his  poems  by  subscription !  "  I  was  pretty  confident 
my  poems  would  meet  with  some  applause  ;  but  at  the  worst, 
the  roar  of  the  Atlantic  would  deafen  the  voice  of  censure, 
and  the  novelty  of  West  Indian  scenes  make  me  forget  ne- 
glect. I  threw  off  six  hundred  copies,  of  which  I  got  subscrip- 
tions for  about  three  hundred  and  sixty.  My  vanity  was  highly 
gratified  by  the  reception  I  met  with  from  the  public ;  and  be- 
sides, 1  pocketed,  all  expenses  deducted,  near  twenty  pounds. 
This  sum  came  very  seasonably,  as  I  was  thinking  of  inden- 
turing myself  for  want  of  money  to  procure  my  passage.     As 


k. 


40    ^  THE  GENIUS  AND 


soon  as  I  was  master  of  nine  guineas,  the  price  of  wafting  me 
to  the  torrid  zone,  I  took  a  steerage  passage  in  the  first  ship  that 
was  to  sail  for  the  Clyde,  '  For  hungry  ruin  had  me  in  the 
wind.'  "  The  ship  sailed  ;  but  Burns  was  still  at  Mossgiel,  for 
his  strong  heart  could  not  tear  itself  away  from  Scotland,  and 
some  of  his  friends  encouraged  him  to  hope  that  he  might  be 
made  a  ganger !  In  a  few  months  he  was  about  to  be  hailed, 
by  the  universal  acclamation  of  his  country,  a  great  National 
Poet. 

But  the  enjoyment  of  his  fame  all  round  his  birfli-place,  "  the 
heart  and  the  main  region  of  his  song,"  intense  as  we  knpw  it 
was,  though  it  assuaged,  could  not  still  the  troubles  of  his  heart ; 
his  life  amidst  it  all  was  as  hopeless  as  when  it  was  obscure ; 
"  his  chest  was  on  its  road  to  Greenock,  where  he  was  to  embark 
in  a  few  days  for  America,"  and  again  he  sung 

,  "  Farewell  old  Coila's  hills  and  dales. 

Her  heathy  moors  and  winding  vales. 
The  scenes  where  wretched  fancy  roves. 
Pursuing  past  unhappy  loves. 
Farewell  my  friends,  farewell  my  foes, 
My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those — 
The  bursting  tears  my  heart  declare. 
Farewell  the  bonny  banks  of  Ayr ;" 

when  a  few  words  from  a  blind  old  man  to  a  country  clergy- 
man kindled  within  him  a  new  hope,  and  set  his  heart  on  fire ; 
and  while 

**  November  winds  blew  loud  wi*  angry  sugh," 

"  I  posted  away  to  Edinburgh  without  a  single  acquaintance,  or 
a  single  letter  of  introduction.  The  baneful  star  that  had  so 
long  shed  its  blasting  influence  on  my  zenith,  for  once  made  a 
revolution  to  the  Nadir." 

At  first,  Burns  was  stared  at  with  such  eyes  as  people  open 
wide  who  behold  a  prodigy  ;  for  though  he  looked  the  rustic, 
and  his  broad  shoulders  had  the  stoop  that  stalwart  men  ac- 
quire at  the  plough,  his  swarthy  face  was  ever  and  anon  illu- 
mined with  the  look  that  genius  alone  puts  off  and  on,  and  that 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  41 


comes  and  goes  with  a  new  interpretation  of  imagination's 
winged  words.  For  a  week  or  two  he  had  lived  chiefly  with 
some  Ayrshire  acquaintances,  and  was  not  personally  known 
to  any  of  the  leading  men.  But  as  soon  as  he  came  forward, 
and  was  seen  and  heard,  his  name  went  through  the  city,  and 
people  asked  one  another,  "  Have  you  met  Burns?"  His  de- 
meanor among  the  Magnates,  was  not  only  unembarrassed  but 
dignified,  and  it  was  at  once  discerned  by  the  blindest  that  he 
belonged  to  the  aristocracy  of  nature.  "  The  idea  which  his 
conversation  conveyed  of  the  power  of  his  mind,  exceeded,  if 
possible,  that  which  is  suggested  by  his  writings.  Among  the 
poets  whom  I  have  happened  to  know,  I  have  been  struck,  in 
more  than  one  instance,  with  the  unaccountable  disparity  be- 
tween their  general  talents,  and  the  occasional  aspirations  of 
their  more  favored  moments.  But  all  the  faculties  of  Burns's 
mind  were,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  equally  vigorous  ;  and  his 
predilections  for  poetry  were  rather  the  result  of  his  own  enthu- 
siastic and  impassioned  temper,  than  of  a  genius  exclusively 
adapted  to  that  species  of  composition."  Who  those  poets  were, 
of  occasional  inspiration  and  low  general  talents,  and  in  conver- 
sation felt  to  be  of  the  race  of  the  feeble,  Dugald  Stewart  had 
too  much  delicacy  to  tell  us ;  but  if  Edinburgh  had  been  their 
haunt,  and  theirs  the  model  of  the  poetical  character  in  the  judg- 
ment of  her  sages,  no  wonder  that  a  new  light  was  thrown  on 
the  Philosophy  of  the  Human  Mind  by  that  of  Robert  Burns. 
For  his  intellectual  faculties  were  of  the  highest  order,  and 
though  deferential  to  superior  knowledge,  he  spoke  on  all  sub- 
jects he  understood,  and  they  were  many,  with  a  voice  of  deter- 
mination, and  when  need  was,  of  command.  It  was  not  in  the 
debating  club  in  Tarbolton  alone,  about  which  so  much  non- 
sense has  been  prosed,  that  he  had  learned  eloquence ;  he  had 
been  long  giving  chosen  and  deliberate  utterance  to  all  his 
bright  ideas  and  strong  emotions ;  they  were  all  his  own,  or  he 
had  made  them  his  own  by  transfusion  ;  and  so,  therefore,  was 
his  speech.  Its  fount  was  in  genius,  and  therefore  could  not 
run  dry — a  flowing  spring  that  needed  neither  to  be  fanged  nor 
pumped.  As  he  had  the  power  of  eloquence,  so  had  he  the  will, 
the  desire,  the  ambition  to  put  it  forth  ;  for  he  rejoiced  to  carry 


42  THE  GENIUS  AND 


with  him  the  sympathies  of  his  kind,  and  in  his  highest  moods 
he  was  not  satisfied  with  their  admiration  without  their  love. 
There  never  beat  a  heart  more  alive  to  kindness.     To  the  wise 
and  good,  how  eloquent  his  gratitude  !  to  Glencairn,  how  imper- 
ishable !     This  exceeding  tenderness  of  heart  often  gave  such 
pathos  to  his  ordinary  talk,  that  he  even  melted  common-place 
people  into  tears !     Without  scholarship,  without  science,  with 
not  much  of  what  is  called  information,  he  charmed  the  first 
men  in  a  society  equal  in  all  these  to  any  at  that  time  in  Eu- 
rope.    The  scholar  was  happy  to  forget  his  classic  lore,  as  he 
listened,  for  the  first  time,  to  the  noblest  sentiments  flowing  from 
the  lips  of  a  rustic,  sometimes  in  his  own  Doric,  divested  of  all 
offensive  vulgarity,  but  oftener  in  language  which,  in  our  north- 
ern capital,  was  thought  pure  English,  and  comparatively  it  was 
so,  for  in  those  days  the   speech  of  many  of  the  most  distin- 
guished persons  would  have  been  unintelligible  out  of  Scotland, 
and  they  were  proud  of  excelling  in  the  use  of  their  mother 
tongue.      The  philosopher  wondered  that  the    peasant  should 
comprehend  intuitively  truths  that  had  been  established,  it  was 
so  thought,  by  reasoning  demonstrative  or  inductive ;    as  the 
illustrious  Stewart,  a  year  or  two  afterwards,  wondered  how 
clear  an  idea  Burns  the  Poet  had  of  Alison's  True  Theory  of 
Taste.     True  it  is  that  the  great  law  of  association  has  by  no 
one  been  so  beautifully  stated  in  a  single  sentence  as  by  Burns : 
"  That  the  martial  clangor  of  a  trumpet  had  something  in  it 
vastly  more  grand,  heroic,  and  sublime  than  the  twingle-twangle 
of  a  Jews'-harp ;  that  the  delicate  flexure  of  a  rose-twig,  when 
the  half-blown  flower  is  heavy  with  the  tears  of  the  dawn,  was 
infinitely  more  beautiful  and  elegant  than  the  upright  stalk  of 
the  burdock  ;  and  that  from  something  innate  and  independent 
of  all  associations  of  ideas — these  I  had  set  down  as  irrefra- 
gable orthodox  truths,  until  perusing  your  book  shook  my  faith." 
The  man  of  wit — aye  even  Harry  Erskine  himself — and  a  wit- 
tier than  he  never  charmed  social  life — was  nothing  loth,  with 
his  delightful  amenity,  to  cease  for  a  while  the  endless  series  of 
anecdotes  so  admirably  illustrative  of  the  peculiarities  of  na- 
tions, orders,  or  individuals,  and  almost  all  of  them  created  or 
vivified  by  his  own  genius,  that  the  most  accomplished  compa- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  43 

nies  might  experience  a  new  pleasure  from  the  rich  and  racy 
humor  of  a  natural  converser  fresh  from  the  plough. 

And  how  did  Burns  bear  all  this,  and  much  besides  even  more 
trying  ?  For  you  know  that  a  duchess  declared  that  she  had 
never  before  in  all  her  life  met  with  a  man  who  so  fairly  carried 
her  off  her  feet.  Hear  Professor  Stewart :  "  The  attentions  he 
received  during  his  stay  in  town,  from  all  ranks  and  descrip- 
tions of  persons,  were  such  as  would  have  turned  any  head  but 
his  own.  I  cannot  say  that  I  could  perceive  any  unfavorable 
effect  which  they  left  on  his  mind.  He  retained  the  same  sim- 
plicity of  manners  and  appearance  which  had  struck  me  so 
forcibly  when  1  first  saw  him  in  the  country ;  nor  did  he  seem 
to  feel  any  additional  self-importance  from  the  number  and  rank 
of  his  new  acquaintance."  In  many  passages  of  his  letters  to 
friends  who  had  their  fears.  Burns  expressed  entire  confidence  in 
his  own  self-respect,  and  in  terms  the  most  true  and  touching ; 
as,  for  example,  to  Dr.  Moore :  "  The  hope  to  be  admired  for 
ages  is,  in  by  far  the  greater  part  of  those  who  even  were  au- 
thors of  repute,  an  unsubstantial  dream.  For  my  part,  my 
first  ambition  was,  and  still  is,  to  please  my  compeers,  the  rustic 
inmates  of  the  hamlet,  while  ever-changing  language  and  man- 
ners shall  allow  me  to  be  relished  and  understood."  And  to  his 
venerated  friend  Mrs.  Dunlop,  he  gives  utterance,  in  the  midst 
of  his  triumphs,  to  dark  forebodings,  some  of  which  were  but 
too  soon  fulfilled  !  "  You  are  afraid  that  I  shall  grow  intoxi- 
cated with  my  prosperity  as  a  poet.  Alas !  Madam,  I  know 
myself  and  the  world  too  well.  I  assure  you.  Madam,  I  do  not 
dissemble,  when  I  tell  you  I  tremble  for  the  consequences.  The 
novelty  of  a  poet  in  my  obscure  situation,  without  any  of  those 
advantages  which  are  reckoned  necessary  for  that  character,  at 
least  at  this  time  of  day,  has  raised  a  partial  tide  of  public  no- 
tice, which  has  borne  me  to  a  height  where  I  am  feeling  abso- 
lutely certain  my  abilities  are  inadequate  to  support  me ;  and 
too  surely  do  I  see  that  time,  when  the  same  tide  will  leave  me, 
and  recede,  perhaps,  as  far  below  the  mark  of  truth.  I  do  not 
say  this  in  ridiculous  affectation  of  self-abasement  and  modesty. 
I  have  studied  myself,  and  know  what  ground  I  occupy ;  and 
however  a  friend  or  the  world  may  differ  from  me  in  that  par- 


44  THE  GENIUS  AND 


ticular,  I  stand  for  my  own  opinion  in  silent  resolve,  with  all  the 
tenaciousness  of  property.  I  mention  this  to  you  once  for  all,  to 
disburthen  my  mind,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  or  say  more  about 
it.     But, 

*  When  proud  fortune's  ebbing  tide  recedes,' 

you  will  bear  me  witness,  that,  when  my  bubble  of  fame  was  at 
the  highest,  I  stood,  unintoxicated  with  the  inebriating  cup  in 
my  hand,  looking  forward  with  rueful  resolve  to  the  hastening 
time  when  the  blow  of  Calumny  should  dash  it  to  the  ground 
with  all  the  eagerness  of  vengeful  triumph." 

Such  equanimity  is  magnanimous ;  for  though  it  is  easy  to 
declaim  on  the  vanity  of  fame,  and  the  weakness  of  them  who 
are  intoxicated  with  its  bubbles,  the  noblest  have  still  longed  for 
it,  and  what  a  fatal  change  it  has  indeed  often  wrought  on  the 
simplicity  and  sincerity  of  the  most  gifted  spirits  !  There  must 
be  a  moral  grandeur  in  his  character  who  receives  sedately  the 
unexpected,  though  deserved  ratification  of  his  title  to  that 
genius  whose  empire  is  the  inner  being  of  his  race,  from  the 
voice  of  his  native  land  uttered  aloud  through  all  her  regions, 
and  harmoniously  combined  of  innumerable  tones  all  expressive 
of  a  great  people's  pride.  Make  what  deductions  you  will  from 
the  worth  of  that  "  All  hail ! "  and  still  it  must  have  sounded  in 
Burns's  ears  as  a  realization  of  that  voice  heard  by  his  prophetic 
soul  in  the  "  Vision." 

"  All.  Hail  !  my  own  iivspired  bard  ! 
I  taught  thy  manners-painting  strains, 
The  loves,  the  ways  of  simple  swains, 
Till  now,  o'er  all  my  wide  domains 

Thy  Fame  extends  !  *' 

Robert  Burns  was  not  the  man  to  have  degraded  himself  ever- 
lastingly, by  one  moment's  seeming  slight  or  neglect  of  friends, 
new  or  old,  belonging  either  to  his  own  condition,  or  to  a  rank 
in  life  somewhat  higher  perhaps  than  his  own,  although  not  ex- 
actly to  that  "  select  society  "  to  which  the  wonder  awakened  by 
his  genius  had  given  him  a  sudden  introduction.  Persons  in 
that  middle  or  inferior  rank  were  his  natural,  his  best,  and  his 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  45 

truest  friends  ;  and  many  of  them,  there  can  be  no  doubt,  were 
worthy  of  his  happiest  companionship  either  in  the  festal  hour 
or  the  hour  of  closer  communion.  He  had  no  right,  with  all 
his  genius,  to  stand  aloof  from  them,  and  with  a  heart  like  his 
he  had  no  inclination.  Why  should  he  have  lived  exclusively 
with  lords  and  ladies — paper  or  land  lords — ladies  by  descent  or 
courtesy — with  aristocratic  advocates,  philosophical  professors, 
clergymen,  wild  or  moderate,  Arminian  or  Calvinistic  ?  Some 
of  them  were  among  the  first  men  of  their  age  ;  others  were 
doubtless  not  inerudite,  and  a  few  not  unwitty  in  their  own  es- 
teem ;  and  Burns  greatly  enjoyed  their  society,  in  which  he  met 
with  an  admiration  that  must  have  been  to  him  the  pleasure  of 
a  perpetual  triumph.  But  more  of  them  were  dull  and  pom- 
pons  ;  incapable  of  rightly  estimating  or  feeling  the  power  of 
his  genius ;  and  when  the  glitter  and  the  gloss  of  novelty  was 
worn  off  before  their  shallow  eyes,  from  the  poet  who  bore  them 
all  down  into  insignificance,  then  no  doubt  they  began  to  get 
offended  and  shocked  with  his  rusticity  or  rudeness,  and  sought 
refuge  in  the  distinctions  of  rank,  and  the  laws,  not  to  be  violat- 
ed with  impunity,  of  "  select  society."  The  patronage  he  re- 
ceived was  honorable,  and  he  felt  it  to  be  so  ;  but  it  was  still 
patronage  ;  and  had  he,  for  the  sake  of  it  or  its  givers,  forgotten 
for  a  day  the  humblest,  lowest,  meanest  of  his  friends,  or  even 
his  acquaintances,  how  could  he  have  borne  to  read  his  own  two 
bold  lines — 

"  The  rank  is  but  the  guinea  stamp. 
The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that  ? " 

Besides,  we  know  from  Burns's  poetry  what  was  then  the  char- 
acter of  the  people  of  Scotland,  for  they  were  its  materials,  its 
staple.  Her  peasantry  were  a  noble  race,  and  their  virtues 
moralized  his  song.  The  inhabitants  of  the  towns  were  of  the 
same  family — the  same  blood — one  kindred — and  many,  most 
of  them,  had  been  born,  or  in  some  measure  bred,  in  the  coun- 
try. Their  ways  of  thinking,  feeling,  and  acting  were  much 
alike  ;  and  the  shopkeepers  of  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow  were  as 
proud  of  Robert  Burns,  as  the  ploughmen  and  shepherds  of 
Kyle  and  the  Stewartry.     He  saw  in  them  friends  and  brothers. 


46  THE  GENIUS  AND 


Their  admiration  of  him  was,  perhaps,  fully  more  sincere  and 
heartfelt,  nor  accompanied  with  less  understanding  of  his  merits, 
than  that  of  persons  in  higher  places ;  and  most  assuredly  among 
the  respectable  citizens  of  Edinburgh  Burns  found  more  lasting 
friends  than  he  ever  did  among  her  gentry  and  noblesse.  Nor 
can  we  doubt,  that  then  as  now,  there  were  in  that  order  great 
numbers  of  men  of  well  cultivated  minds,  whom  Burns,  in  his 
best  hours,  did  right  to  honor,  and  who  were  perfectly  entitled 
to  seek  his  society,  and  to  open  their  hospitable  doors  to  the 
brilliant  stranger.  That  Burns,  whose  sympathies  were  keen 
and  wide,  and  who  never  dreamt  of  looking  down  on  others  as 
beneath  him,  merely  because  he  was  conscious  of  his  own  vast 
superiority  to  the  common  run  of  men,  should  have  shunned  or 
been  shy  of  such  society,  would  have  been  something  altogether 
unnatural  and  incredible  ;  nor  is  it  at  all  wonderful  or  blame- 
able  that  he  should  occasionally  even  have  much  preferred  such 
society  to  that  which  has  been  called  "  more  select,"  and  there- 
fore above  his  natural  and  proper  condition.  Admirably  as  he 
in  general  behaved  in  the  higher  circles,  in  those  humbler  ones 
alone  could  he  have  felt  himself  completely  at  home.  His  de- 
meaner  among  the  rich,  the  great,  the  learned,  or  the  wise,  must 
often  have  been  subject  to  some  little  restraint,  and  all  restraint 
of  that  sort  is  ever  painful ;  or,  what  is  worse  still,  his  talk  must 
sometimes  have  partaken  of  display.  With  companions  and 
friends,  who  claimed  no  superiority  in  anything,  the  sensitive 
mind  of  Burns  must  have  been  at  its  best  and  happiest,  because 
completely  at  its  ease,  and  free  movement  given  to  the  play  of 
all  its  feelings  and  faculties ;  and  in  such  companies  we  cannot 
but  believe  that  his  wonderful  conversational  powers  shone  forth 
in  their  most  various  splendor.  He  must  have  given  vent  there 
to  a  thousand  familiar  fancies,  in  all  their  freedom  and  all  their 
force,  which,  in  the  fastidious  society  of  high  life,  his  imagina- 
tion must  have  been  too  much  fettered  even  to  conceive ;  and 
which,  had  they  flowed  from  his  lips,  would  either  not  have  been 
understood,  or  would  have  given  offence  to  that  delicacy  of 
breeding  which  is  often  hurt  even  by  the  best  manners  of  those 
whose  manners  are  all  of  nature's  teaching,  and  unsubjected 
to  the  salutary  restraints  of  artificial  life.     Indeed,  we  know 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  4T 

that  Burns  sometimes  burst  suddenly  and  alarmingly  the  re- 
straints  of  "  select  society ;  "  and  that  on  one  occasion  he  called 
a  clergyman  an  idiot  for  misquoting  Gray's  Elegy — a  truth  that 
ought  not  to  have  been  promulgated  in  presence  of  the  parson, 
especially  at  so  early  a  meal  as  breakfast :  and  he  confesses  in 
his  most  confidential  letters,  though  indeed  he  was  then  writing 
with  some  bitterness,  that  he  never  had  been  truly  and  entirely 
happy  at  rich  men's  feasts.  If  so,  then  never  could  he  have 
displayed  there  his  genius  in  full  power  and  lustre.  His  noble 
rage  must  in  some  measure  have  been  repressed — the  genial 
current  of  his  soul  in  some  degree  frozen.  He  never  was,  never 
could  be,  the  free,  fearless,  irresistible  Robert  Burns  that  nature 
made  him — no,  not  even  although  he  carried  the  Duchess  of 
Gordon  off  her  feet,  and  silenced  two  Ex-Moderators  of  the 
General  Assembly  of  the  Church  of  Scotland. 

Burns,  before  his  visit  to  Edinburgh,  had  at  all  times  and 
places  been  in  the  habit  of  associating  with  the  best  men  of  his 
order — the  best  in  everything,  in  station,  in  manners,  in  moral 
and  intellectual  character.  Such  men  as  William  Tell  and 
Hofer,  for  example,  associated  with  in  Switzerland  and  the 
Tyrol.  Even  the  persons  he  got  unfortunately  too  well  ac- 
quainted with  (but  whose  company  he  soon  shook  off),  at  Irvine 
and  Kirk-Oswald — smugglers  and  their  adherents,  were,  though 
a  lawless  and  dangerous  set,  men  of  spunk,  and  spirit,  and 
power,  both  of  mind  and  body  ;  nor  was  there  anything  the  least 
degrading  in  an  ardent,  impassioned,  and  imaginative  youth  be- 
coming for  a  time  rather  too  much  attached  to  such  daring,  and 
adventurous,  and  even  interesting  characters.  They  had  all  a 
fine  strong  poetical  smell  of  the  sea,  mingled  to  precisely  the 
proper  pitch  with  that  of  the  contraband.  As  a  poet  Burns 
must  have  been  much  the  better  of  such  temporary  associates ; 
as  a  man,  let  us  hope,  notwithstanding  Gilbert's  fears,  not  greatly 
the  worse.  The  passions  that  boiled  in  his  blood  would  have 
overflowed  his  life,  often  to  disturb,  and  finally  to  help  to  destroy 
him,  had  there  never  been  an  Irvine  and  its  sea-port.  But 
Burns's  friends,  up  to  the  time  he  visited  Edinburgh,  had  been 
chiefly  his  admirable  brother,  a  few  of  the  ministers  round 
about,  farmers,  ploughmen,  farm-servants,  and  workers  in  the 


48  THE  GENIUS  AND 


c] 


winds  of  heaven  blowing  over  moors  and  mosses,  cornfields  and 
meadows  beautiful  as  the  blue  skies  themselves  ;  and  if  you  call 
that  low  company,  you  had  better  fling  your  copy  of  Burns, 
Cottar's  Saturday  Night,  Mary  in  Heaven,  and  all,  into  the  fire. 
He,  the  noblest  peasant  that  ever  trod  the  greensward  of  Scot- 
land, kept  the  society  of  other  peasants,  whose  nature  was  like 
his  own ;  and  then,  were  the  silken-snooded  maidens  whom  he 
wooed  on  lea-rig  and  'mang  the  rigs  o'  barley,  were  they  who 
inspired  at  once  his  love  and  his  genius,  his  passion  and  his 
poetry,  till  the  whole  land  of  Coila  overflowed  with  his  immortal 
song, — so  that  now  to  the  proud  native's  ear  every  stream  mur- 
murs a  music  not  its  own,  given  it  by  sweet  Robin's  lays,  and 
the  lark  more  lyrical  than  ever  seems  singing  his  songs  at  the 
ates  of  heaven  for  the  shepherd's  sake,  as  through  his  half- 
closed  hand  he  eyes  the  musical  mote  in  the  sunshine,  and 
remembers  him  who  "  sung  her  new-wakened  by  the  daisy's 
side," — were  they,  the  blooming  daughters  of  Scotia,  we  de- 
mand of  you  on  peril  of  your  life,  low  company  and  unworthy 
of  Robert  Burns  ? 

As  to  the  charge  of  liking  to  be  what  is  vulgarly  called  "  cock 
of  the  company,"  what  does  that  mean  when  brought  against 
such  a  man  ?  In  what  company,  pray,  could  not  Burns,  had  he 
chosen  it,  and  he  often  did  choose  it,  have  easily  been  the  first  ? 
No  need  had  he  to  crow  among  dunghills.  If  you  liken  him  to 
a  bird  at  all,  let  it  be  the  eagle,  or  the  nightingale,  or  the  bird 
of  Paradise.  James  Montgomery  has  done  this  in  some  exqui- 
site verses,  which  are  clear  in  our  heart,  but  indistinct  in  our 
memory,  and  therefore  we  cannot  adorn  our  pages  with  their 
beauty.  The  truth  is,  that  Burns,  though  when  his  heart 
burned  within  him,  one  of  the  most  eloquent  of  men  that  ever 
set  the  table  in  a  roar  or  a  hush,  was  always  a  modest,  often 
a  silent  man,  and  he  would  sit  for  hours  together,  even  in  com- 
pany, with  his  broad'  forehead  on  his  hand,  and  his  large  lamp- 
ing eyes  sobered  and  tamed,  in  profound  and  melancholy  thought. 
Then  his  soul  would  "  spring  upwards  like  a  pyramid  of  fire," 
and  send  "  illumination  into  dark  deep  holds,"  or  brighten  the 
brightest  hour  in  which  Feeling  and  Fancy  ever  flung  their 
united  radiance  over  the  common  ongoings  of  this  our  common- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  49 

place  world  and  every-day  life.  Was  this  the  man  to  desire, 
with  low  longings  and  base  aspirations,  to  shine  among  the  ob- 
scure, or  rear  his  haughty  front  and  giant  stature  among  pig- 
mies ?     He  who 

"  walked  in  glory  and  in  joy,  ^ml^ 

Following  his  plough  upon  the  mountain-side ;" 

he  who  sat  in  glory  and  in  joy  at  the  festal  board,  when  mirth 
and  wine  did  most  abound,  and  strangers  were  strangers  no  more 
within  the  fascination  of  his  genius,  for 

"  One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin ;" 

or  at  the  frugal  board,  surrounded  by  his  wife  and  children,  and 
servants,  lord  and  master  of  his  own  happy  and  industrious 
home — the  frugal  meal,  preceded  and  followed  by  thanksgiving, 
to  the  Power  that  spread  his  table  in  the  barren  places  ? 

Show  us  any  series  of  works  in  prose  or  verse,  in  which^ 
man's  being  is  so  illustrated  as  to  lay  it  bare  and  open  for  the 
benefit  of  man,  and  the  chief  pictures  they  contain,  drawn  from 
" select  society."  There  are  none  such ;  and  for  this  reason,, 
that  in  such  society  there  is  neither  power  to  paint  them,  nor 
materials  to  be  painted,  nor  colors  to  lay  on,  till  the  canvas  shall 
speak  a  language  which  all  the  world  as  it  runs  may  read.. 
What  would  Scott  have  been,  had  he  not  loved  and  known  the 
people  ?  What  would  his  works  have  been,  had  they  not  shown 
the  many-colored  character  of  the  people  ?  What  would  Shak- 
speare  have  been,  had  he  not  often  turned  majestically  from  kings, 
and  "  lords  and  dukes  and  mighty  earls,"  to  their  subjects  and 
vassals  and  lowly  bondsmen,  and  "  counted  the  beatings  of  lonely 
hearts  "  in  the  obscure  but  impassioned  life  that  stirs  every  nook 
of  this  earth  where  human  beings  abide  ?  What  would  Words- 
worth have  been,  had  he  disdained,  with  his  high  intellect  and 
imagination,  "to  stoop  his  anointed  head"  beneath  the  wooden 
lintel  of  the  poor  man's  door  ?  His  Lyrical  Ballads,  "  with  all 
the  innocent  brightness  of  the  new-born  day,"  had  never 
charmed  the  meditative  heart.  His  "  Church-Yard  among  the 
Mountains "  had  never  taught  men  how  to  live  and  how  to  die. 
5 


50  THE  GENIUS  AND 


These  are  men  who  have  descended  from  aerial  heights  into  the 
humblest  dwellings  ;  who  have  shown  the  angel's  wing  equally 
when  poised  near  the  earth,  and  floating  over  its  cottaged  vales, 
as  when  seen  sailing  on  high  through  the  clouds  and  azure 
depth  of  heaven,  or  hanging  over  the  towers  and  temples  of 
great  cities.  They  shunned  not  to  parley  with  the  blind  beggar 
by  the  way-side  ;  they  knew  how  to  transmute,  by  divinest  al- 
chemy, the  base  metal  into  the  fine  gold.  Whatever  company 
of  human  beings  they  have  mingled  with,  they  lend  it  colors, 
and  did  not  receive  its  shades ;  and  hence  their  mastery  over  the 
*'  wide  soul  of  the  world  dreaming  of  things  to  come."  Burns 
was  born,  bred,  lived,  and  died  in  that  condition  of  this  mortal 
life  to  which  they  paid  but  visits ;  his  heart  lay  wholly  there ; 
and  that  heart,  filled  as  it  was  with  all  the  best  human  feelings, 
and  sometimes  with  thoughts  divine,  had  no  fears  about  entering 
into  places  which  timid  moralists  might  have  thought  forbidden 
and  unhallowed  ground,  but  which  he,  wiser  far,  knew  to  be 
inhabited  by  creatures  of  conscience,  bound  there  often  in  thick 
darkness  by  the  inscrutable  decrees  of  God. 

For  a  year  and  more  after  the  publication  of  the  Edinburgh 
Edition,  Burns  led  a  somewhat  roving  life,  till  his  final  settlement 
with  Creech.  He  had  a  right  to  enjoy  himself;  and  it  does  not 
appear  that  there  was  much  to  blame  in  his  conduct  either  in 
town  or  country,  though  he  did  not  live  upon  air  nor  yet  upon 
water.  There  was  much  dissipation  in  those  days — much  hard 
drinking — in  select  as  well  as  in  general  society,  in  the  best  as 
well  as  in  the  worst ;  and  he  had  his  share  of  it  in  many  cir- 
cles— but  never  in  the  lowest.  His  associates  were  all  honor- 
able men,  then,  and  in  after  life ;  and  he  left  the  Capital  in  pos- 
session of  the  respect  of  its  most  illustrious  citizens.  Of  his 
various  tours  and  excursions  there  is  little  to  be  said  ;  the  birth- 
places of  old  Scottish  Songs  he  visited  in  the  spirit  of  a  religious  pil- 
grim ;  and  his  poetical  fervor  was  kindled  by  the  grandeur  of  the 
Highlands.  He  had  said  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  "  I  have  no  dearer 
aim  than  to  have  it  in  my  power,  unplagued  with  the  routine  of 
business,  for  which,  heaven  knows !  I  am  unfit  enough,  to  make 
leisurely  pilgrimages  through  Caledonia  ;  to  sit  on  the  fields  of 
her  battles,  to  wander  on  the  romantic  banks  of  her  rivers,  and 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  51 

to  muse  by  the  stately  towers  or  venerable  ruins,  once  the 
honored  abodes  of  her  heroes.  But  these  are  all  Utopian 
thoughts ;  I  have  dallied  long  enough  with  life ;  't  is  time  to  be 
in  earnest.  I  have  a  fond,  and  aged  mother  to  care  for,  and 
some  other  bosom  ties  perhaps  equally  tender.  Where  the  indi- 
vidual only  suffers  by  the  consequences  of  his  own  thonghtless- 
less,  indolence,  or  folly,  he  may  be  excusable,  nay,  shining  abili- 
ties, and  some  of  the  nobler  virtues,  may  half  sanctify  a  heed- 
less character :  but  where  God  and  nature  have  intrusted  the 
welfare  of  others  to  his  care,  where  the  trust  is  sacred,  and  the 
ties  are  dear,  that  man  must  be  far  gone  in  selfishness,  or 
strangely  lost  to  reflection,  whom  these  connections  will  not  rouse 
to  exertion." 

Burns  has  now  got  liberated,  for  ever,  from  "  stately  Edin- 
borough  throned  on  crags,"  the  favored  abode  of  philosophy  and 
fashion,  law  and  literature,  reason  and  refinement,  and  has  re- 
turned again  into  his  own  natural  condition,  neither  essentially 
the  better  nor  the  worse  of  his  city  life ;  the  same  man  he  was 
when  "  the  poetic  genius  of  his  country  found  him  at  the  plough 
and  threw  her  inspiring  mantle  over  him."  And  what  was  he 
now  to  do  with  himself?  Into  what  occupation  for  the  rest  of 
his  days  was  he  to  settle  down  ?  It  would  puzzle  the  most  saga- 
cious even  now,  fifty  years  after  the  event,  to  say  what  he  ought 
to  have  done  that  he  did  not  do  at  that  juncture,  on  which  for 
weal  or  wo  the  future  must  have  been  so  deeply  felt  by  him  to 
depend.  And  perhaps  it  might  not  have  occurred  to  every  one 
of  the  many  prudent  persons  who  have  lamented  over  his  follies, 
had  he  stood  in  Burns's  shoes,  to  make  over,  unconditionally,  to 
his  brother  one  half  of  all  he  was  worth.  Gilbert  was  resolved 
still  to  struggle  on  with  Mossgiel,  and  Robert  said,  "  there  is  my 
purse."  The  brothers,  different  as  they  were  in  the  constitution 
of  their  souls,  had  one  and  the  same  heart.  They  loved  one 
another — man  and  boy  alike ;  and  the  survivor  cleared,  with 
pious  hands,  the  weeds  from  his  brother's  grave.  There  was  a 
blessing  in  that  two  hundred  pounds — and  thirty  years  after- 
wards Gilbert  repaid  it  with  interest  to  Robert's  widow  and  chil- 
dren, by  an  Edition  in  which  he  wiped  away  stains  from  the 
reputation  of  his  benefactor,  which  had  been  suffered  to  remain 


52  THE  GENIUS  AND 


too  long,  and  some  of  which,  the  most  difficult  too  to  be  effaced, 
had  been  even  let  fall  from  the  fingers  of  a  benevolent  biogra- 
pher who  thought  himself  in  duty  bound  to  speak  what  he  most 
mistakenly  believed  to  be  the  truth.  "  Oh  Robert !  "  was  all 
his  mother  could  say  on  his  return  to  Mossgiel  from  Edinburgh. 
In  her  simple  heart  she  was  astonished  at  his  fame,  and  could 
not  understand  it  well,  any  more  than  she  could  her  own  happi- 
ness and  her  own  pride.  But  his  affection  she  understood  better 
than  he  did,  and  far  better  still  his  generosity ;  and  duly  night 
and  morning  she  asked  a  blessing  on  his  head  from  Him  who 
had  given  her  such  a  son. 

"  Between  the  men  of  rustic  life,"  said  Burns — so  at  least  it 
is  reported — "  a'nd  the  polite  world  I  observed  little  difference. 
In  the  former,  though  unpolished  by  fashion,  and  unenlightened 
by  science,  I  have  found  much  observation  and  much  intelli- 
gence. But  a  refined  and  accomplished  woman  was  a  thing 
altogether  new  to  me,  and  of  which  I  had  formed  but  a  very  in- 
adequate idea."  One  of  his  biographers  seems  to  have  believed 
that  his  love  for  Jean  Armour,  the  daughter  of  a  Mauchline 
mason,  must  have  died  away  under  these  more  adequate  ideas 
of  the  sex  along  with  their  corresponding  emotions ;  and  that  he 
now  married  her  with  reluctance.  Only  think  of  Burns  taking 
an  Edinburgh  Belle  to  wife  !     He  flew,  somewhat  too  fervently, 

"  To  love's  willing  fetters,  the  arms  of  his  Jean." 

Her  father  had  again  to  curse  her  for  her  infatuated  love  of  her 
husband— for  such  if  not  by  the  law  of  Scotland — which  may 
be  doubtful — Burns  certainly  was  by  the  law  of  heaven — and 
like  a  good  Christian  had  again  turned  his  daughter  out  of  doors. 
^  Had  Burns  deserted  her  he  had  merely  been  a  heartless  villain. 
In  making  her  his  lawful  wedded  wife  he  did  no  more  than  any 
other  man,  deserving  the  name  of  man,  in  the  same  circumstan- 
ces would  have  done  ;  and  had  he  not,  he  would  have  walked  in 
shame  before  men,  and  in  fear  and  trembling  before  God.  But 
he  did  so,  not  only  because  it  was  his  most  sacred  duty,  but 
because  he  loved  her  better  than  ever,  and  without  her  would 
have  been  miserable.     Much  had  she  suffered  for  his  sake,  and 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  53 

he  for  hers;  but  all  that  distraction  and  despair  which  had 
nearly  driven  him  into  a  sugar  plantation,  were  over  and  gone, 
forgotten  utterly,  or  remembered  but  as  a  dismal  dream  endear- 
ing the  placid  d^j  that  for  ever  dispelled  it.  He  writes  about 
her  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  and  others  in  terms  of  sobriety  and  good 
sense — "  The  most  placid  good  nature  and  sweetness  of  dispo- 
sition ;  a  warm  heart,  gratefully  devoted  with  all  its  powers  to 
love  me  ;  vigorous  health  and  sprightly  cheerfulness,  set  off. to 
the  best  advantage  by  a  more  than  commonly  handsome  figure  " 
— these  he  thought  in  a  woman  might,  with  a  knowledge  of  the 
scriptures,  make  a  good  wife.  During  the  few  months  he  was 
getting  his  house  ready  for  her  at  EUisland  he  frequently  trav- 
elled, with  all  the  fondness  of  a  lover,  the  long  wilderness  of 
moors  to  Mauchline,  where  she  was  in  the  house  of  her  austere 
father  reconciled  to  her  at  last.  And  though  he  has  told  us  that 
it  was  his  custom,  in  song-writing,  to  keep  the  image  of  some 
fair  maiden  before  the  eye  of  his  fancy,  "  some  bright  particular 
star,"  and  that  Hymen  was  not  the  divinity  he  then  invoked,  yet 
it  was  on  one  of  these  visits,  between  EUisland  and  Mossgiel, 
that  he  penned  under  such  homely  inspiration  as  precious  a  love- 
offering  as  genius  in  the  passion  of  hope  ever  laid  in  a  virgin's 
bosom.  His  wife  sung  it  to  him  that  same  evening — and  indeed 
he  never  knew  whether  or  no  he  had  succeeded  in  any  one  of 
his  lyrics,  till  he  heard  his  words  and  the  air  together  from  her 
•voice.  • 

• 

"  Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 
I  dearly  like  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best :  * 

There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row. 

And  mony  a  hill  between  ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 
Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

*'  I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 
I  see  her  sweet  and  fair : 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air : 
There's  not  a  bonny  flower  that  springs. 
By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green. 


54  THE  GENIUS  AND 


There's  not  a  bonny  bird  that  sings, 
But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 

"  Oh  blaw  ye  westlin  winds,  blaw  saft 

Amang  the  leafy  trees, 
Wi'  balmy  gale,  frae  hill  and  dale, 

Bring  hame  the  laden  bees ; 
And  bring  the  lassie  back  to  me 

That's  aye  sae  neat  and  clean ; 
Ae  smile  o'  her  wad  banish  care, 

Sae  charming  is  my  Jean. 

*'  What  sighs  and  vows  among  the  knowes 

Hae  passed  atween  us  twa ! 
How  fond  to  meet,  how  wae  to  part. 

That  night  she  gaed  awa  ! 
The  powers  aboon  can  only  ken, 

To  whom  the  heart  is  seen, 
That  nane  can  be  sae  dear  to  me 

As  my  sweet  lovely  Jean." 

And  here  we  ask  you  who  may  be  reading  these  pages,  to  pause 
for  a  little,  and  consider  with  yourselves,  what  up  to  this  time 
Burns  had  done  to  justify  the  condemnatory  judgments  that  have 
1  ?  been  passed  on  his  character  as  a  man  by  so  many  admirers  of  his 
']  genius  as  a  poet !  Compared  with  men  of  ordinary  worth,  who 
have  deservedly  passed  through  life  with  the  world's  esteem,  in 
what  was  it  lamentably  wanting  ?  Not  in  tenderness,  warmth, 
strength  of  the  natural  affections;  and  they  are  good  till  turned" 
to  evil.  Not  in  the  duties  for  which  they  were  given,  and  which 
they  make  delights.  Of  which  of  these  duties  was  he  habit- 
ually neglectful  ?  To  the  holiest  of  them  a!l  next  to  piety  to 
his  Maker,  he  was  faithful  beyond  most — few  better  kept  the 
fourth  commandment.  His  youth,  though  soon  too  impassioned, 
had  been  long  pure.  If  he  were  temperate  by  necessity  and 
not  nature,  yet  he  was  so  as  contentedly  as  if  it  had  been  by 
choice.  He  had  lived  on  meal  and  water  with  some  milk,  be- 
cause the  family  were  too  poor  for  better  fare  ;  and  yet  he 
rose  to  labor  as  the  lark  rises  to  sing. 

In  the  corruption  of  our  fallen  nature  he  sinned,  and,  it  has 
been  said,  became  a  libertine.  Was  he  ever  guilty  of  deliber- 
ate seduction  ?     It  is  not  so  recorded  j  and  we  believe  his  whole 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  ^ 

soul  would  have  recoiled  from  such  wickedness  :  but  let  us  not 
affect  ignorance  of  what  we  all  know.  Among  no  people  on  the 
face  of  the  earth  is  the  moral  code  so  rigid,  with  regard  to  the 
intercourse  of  the  sexes,  as  to  stamp  with  ineffaceable  disgrace 
every  lapse  from  virtue ;  and  certainly  not  among  the  Scottish 
peasantry,  austere  as  the  spirit  of  religion  has  always  been,  and 
terrible  ecclesiastical  censure.  Hateful  in  all  eyes  is  the  re- 
probate— the  hoary  sinner  loathsome  ;  but  many  a  grey  head  is 
now  deservedly  reverenced  that  would  not  be  so,  were  the  mem- 
ory of  all  that  has  been  repented  by  the  Elder,  and  pardoned 
unto  him,  to  rise  up  against  him  among  the  congregation  as  he 
entered  the  House  of  God.  There  has  been  many  a  rueful  tra- 
gedy in  houses  that  in  after  times  "  seemed  asleep."  How  many 
good  and  happy  fathers  of  families,  who,  were  all  their  past  lives 
to  be  pictured  in  ghastly  revelation  to  the  eyes  of  their  wives 
and  children,  could  never  again  dare  to  look  them  in  the  face ! 
It  pleased  God  to  give  them  a  long  life  ;  and  they  have  escaped, 
not  by  their  own  strength,  far  away  from  the  shadows  of  their 
Kiisdeeds  that  are  not  now  suffered  to  pursue  them,  but  are 
chained  down  in  the  past,  no  more  to  be  let  loose.  That  such 
things  were,  is  a  secret  none  now  live  to  divulge ;  and  though 
once  known,  they  were  never  emblazoned.  But  Burns  and  men 
like  Burns  showed  the  whole  world  their  dark  spots  by  the  very 
light  of  their  genius ;  and  having  died  in  what  may  almost  be 
called  their  youth,  there  the  dark  spots  still  are,  and  men  point 
to  them  with  their  fingers,  to  whose  eyes  there  may  seem  but 
small  glory  in  all  that  effulgence. 

Burns  now  took  possession  at  Whitsuntide  (1788)  of  the  farm 
of  EUisland,  while  his  wife  remained  at  Mossgiel,  completing 
her  education  in  the  dairy,  till  brought  home  next  term  to  their 
new  house,  which  the  poet  set  a-building  with  alacrity,  on  a  plan 
of  his  own,  which  was  as  simple  a  one  as  could  be  devised  : 
kitchen  and  dining  room  in  one,  a  double-bedded  room  with  a 
bed-closet,  and  a  garret.  The  site  was  pleasant,  on  the  edge  of 
a  high  bank  of  the  Nith,  commanding  a  wide  and  beautiful 
prospect, — holms,  plains,  woods,  and  hills,  and  a  long  reach  of 
the  sweeping  river.  While  the  house  and  offices  were  growing, 
he  inhabited  a  hovel  close  at  hand,  and  though  occasionally  giv- 


% 


56  THE  GENIUS  AND 


ing  vent  to  some  splenetic  humors  in  letters  indited  in  his  sooty- 
cabin,  and  now  and  then  yielding  to  fits  of  despondency  about 
the  "  ticklish  situation  of  a  family  of  children,"  he  says  to  his 
friend  Ainslie,  "  I  am  decidedly  of  opinion  that  the  step  I  have 
taken  is  vastly  for  my  happiness."  He  had  to  qualify  himself 
for  holding  his  excise  commission  by  six  weeks'  attendance  on 
the  business  of  that  profession  at  Ayr — and  we  have  seen  that 
he  made  several  visits  to  Mossgiel.  Currie  cannot  let  him  thus 
pass  the  summer  without  moralizing  on  his  mode  of  life. 
"  Pleased  with  surveying  the  grounds  he  was  about  to  cultivate, 
and  with  the  rearing  of  a  building  that  should  give  shelter  to  his 
wife  and  children,  and,  as  he  fondly  hoped,  to  his  own  grey 
hairs,  sentiments  of  independence  buoyefd  up  his  mind,  pictures 
of  domestic  comfort  and  peace  rose  on  his  imagination  ;  and  a 
few  days  passed  away,  as  he  himself  informs  us,  the  most  tran- 
quil, if  not  the  happiest,  which  he  had  ever  experienced."  Let 
us  believe  that  such  days  were  not  few,  but  many,  and  that  we 
need  not  join  with  the  good  Doctor  in  grieving  to  think  that 
Burns  led  all  the  summer  a  wandering  and  unsettled  life.  It 
could  not  be  stationary ;  but  there  is  no  reason  to  think  that 
his  occasional  absence  was  injurious  to  his  affairs  on  the  farm. 
'|(  Currie  writes  as  if  he  thought  him  incapable  of  self-guidance, 
and  says,  "It  is  to  be  lamented  that  at  this  critical  period  of 
his  life,  our  poet  was  without  the  society  of  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren. A  great  change  had  taken  place  in  his  situation ;  his  old 
habits  were  broken ;  and  the  new  circumstances  in  which  he 
was  placed,  were  calculated  to  give  a  new  direction  to  his 
thoughts  and  conduct.  But  his  application  to  the  cares  and  la- 
bors of  his  farm  was  interrupted  by  several  visits  to  his  family 
in  Ayrshire ;  and  as  the  distance  was  too  great  for  a  single  day's 
journey,  he  generally  slept  a  night  at  an  inn  on  the  road.  On 
such  occasions  he  sometimes  fell  into  company,  and  forgot  the 
resolutions  he  had  formed.  In  a  little  while  temptation  assailed 
him  nearer  home."  This  is  treating  Burns  like  a  child,  a  per- 
son of  so  facile  a  disposition  as  not  to  be  trusted  without  a 
keeper  on  the  king's  high. way.  If  he  was  not  fit  to  ride  by 
himself  into  Ayrshire,  and  there  was  no  safety  for  him  at  San- 
quhar, his  case  was  hopeless  out  of  an  asylum.     A  trustwor- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  57 

thy  friend  attended  to  the  farm  as  overseer,  when  he  was  from 
home ;  potatoes,  grass,  and  grain  grew,  though  he  was  away ; 
on  September  9th,  we  find  him  where  he  ought  to  be,  "  I  am 
busy  with  my  harvest;"  and  on  the  16th,  "This  hovel  that  I 
shelter  in,  is  pervious  to  every  blast  that  blows,  and  every  shower 
that  falls,  and  I  am  only  preserved  from  being  chilled  to  death  by 
being  suffocated  with  smoke.  You  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that 
I  have  laid  aside  idle  ^clat,  and  bind  every  day  after  my  reap- 
ers."  Pity  'twas  that  there  had  not  been  a  comfortable  house 
ready  furnished  for  Mrs.  Burns  to  step  into  at  the  beginning  of 
summer,  therein  to  be  brought  to  bed  of  "  little  Frank,  who,  by 
the  by,  I  trust  will  be  no  discredit  to  the  honorable  name  of 
Wallace,  as  he  has  a  fine  manly  countenance,  and  a  figure  that 
might  do  credit  to  a  little  fellow  two  months  older  ;  and  likewise 
an  excellent  good  temper,  though  when  he  pleases,  he  has  a  pipe 
not  only  quite  so  loud  as  the  horn  that  his  immortal  namesake 
blew  as  a  signal  to  take  the  pm  out  of  Stirling  bridge.'* 

Dear  good  old  blind  Dr.  Blacklock,  about  this  time,  was  anx- 
ious to  know  from  Burns  himself  how  he  was  thriving,  and  in- 
dited to  him  a  pleasant  epistle. 

"  Dear  Burns,  thou  brother  of  my  heart. 
Both  for  thy  virtues  and  thy  art ; 
If  art  it  may  be  call'd  in  thee, 
Which  Nature's  bounty,  large  and  free, 
With  pleasure  in  thy  heart  diffuses, 
And  warms  thy  soul  with  all  the  Muses. 
Whether  to  laugh  with  easy  grace, 
Thy  numbers  move  the  sage's  face. 
Or  bid  the  softer  passions  rise, 
And  ruthless  souls  with  grief  surprise, 
'Tis  Nature's  voice  distinctly  felt  • 
•  Through  thee  her  organ,  thus  to  melt. 

"  Most  anxiously  I  wish  to  know. 

With  thee  of  late  how  matters  go ; 

How  keeps  thy  much-loved  Jean  her  health  ? 

What  promises  thy  farm  of  wealth  ? 
'  Whether  the  muse  persists  to  smile. 

And  all  thy  anxious  cares  beguile? 

Whether  bright  fancy  keeps  alive  ? 

And  how  thy  darling  infants  thrive  ?" 


58  THE  GENIUS  AND 


It  appears  from  his  reply,  that  Burns  had  entrusted  Heron 
with  a  letter  to  Blacklock,  which  the  preacher  had  not  delivered, 
and  the  poet  exclaims 

"  The  ill-thief  blaw  the  Heron  south  ! 
And  never  drink  be  near  his  drouth  ! 
He  tald  mysel  by  word  o'  mouth  ^R 

He'd  tak  my  letter ;  '^ 

I  lippened  to  the  chiel  in  trouth 

And  bade  nae  better. 

"  But  aiblins  honest  Master  Heron, 
Had  at  the  time  some  dainty  fair  one, 
To  ware  his  theologic  care  on, 

And  holy  study ; 
And  tir'd  o'  sauls  to  waste  his  lear  on. 
E'en  tried  the  body." 

Currie  says  in  a  note,  "  Mr.  Heron,  author  of  the  History  of 
Scotland  lately  published,  and  among  various  other  works,  of  a 
respectable  life  of  our  poet  himself."  Burns  knew  his  character 
well ;  the  unfortunate  fellow  had  talents  of  no  ordinary  kind, 
and  there  are  many  good  things  and  much  good  writing  in  his 
life  of  Burns;  but  respectable  it  is  not,  basely  calumnious,  and 
the  original  source  of  many  of  the  worst  falsehoods  even  now 
believed  too  widely  to  be  truths,  concerning  the  moral  character 
of  a  man  as  far  superior  to  himself  in  virtue  as  in  genius. 
Burns  then  tells  his  venerated  friend,  that  he  has  absolutely  be- 
come a  ganger. 

"  Ye  glaikit,  gleesome,  dainty  damies, 
Wha  by  Castalia's  wimpling  streamies, 
Loi^,  sing,  and  lave  your  pretty  limbics. 
Ye  ken,  ye  ken, 
-That  Strang  necessity  supreme  is, 
'Mang  sons  o'  men. 

"  I  hae  a  wife  and  twa  wee,  laddies, 
They  maun  hae  brose  and  brats  o'  duddies ; 
Ye  ken  yoursels  my  heart  right  proud  is, 

I  need  na  vaunt, 
But  I'll  sned  besoms — thraw  saugh  woodies. 

Before  they  wan  .»•-'' 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


"  Lord  help  me  thro'  this  warld  o'  care ! 
I'm  weary  sick  o't  late  and  air  ! 
Not  but  I  hae  a  richer  share 

Than  mony  ithers ; 
But  why  should  ae  man  better  fare, 

And  a'  men  brithers  ? 

*'  Come,  Firm  Resolve,  take  thou  the  van, 
Thou  stalk  o'  carl-hemp  in  man  ! 
And  let  us  mind,  faint  heart  ne'er  wan 

A  lady  fair ; 
Wha  does  the  utmost  that  he  can, 

Will  whiles  do  mair. 

"  But  to  conclude  my  silly  rhyme 
(I'm  scant  o'  verse,  and  scant  o'  time), 

To  MAKE  A  HAPPY  FIRE-SIDE  CLIME 

To  WEANS  AND  WIFE, 

That's  the  true  pathos  and  sublime. 
Of  human  life." 

These  noble  stanzas  were  written  towards  the  end  of  October, 
and  in  another  month  Burns  brought  his  wife  home  to  EUisland, 
and  his  three  children,  for  she  had  twice  borne  him  twins.  The 
happiest  period  of  his  life,  we  have  his  own  words  for  it,  was 
that  winter. 

But  why  not  say  that  the  three  years  he  lived  at  EUisland 
were  all  happy,  as  happiness  goes  in  this  world  ?  As  happy 
perhaps  as  they  might  have  been  had  he  been  placed  in  some 
other  condition  apparently  far  better  adapted  to  yield  him  what 
all  human  hearts  do  most  desire.  His  wife  never  had  an  hour's 
sickness,  and  was  always  cheerful  as  day,  one  of  those 

"  Sound  healthy  children  of  the  God  of  heaven," 

whose  very  presence  is  positive  pleasure,  and  whose  contented- 
ness  with  her  lot  inspires  comfort  into  a  husband's  heart,  when 
at  times  oppressed  with  a  mortal  heaviness  that  no  words  could 
lighten.  Burns  says  with  gloomy  grandeur,  "  There  is  a  foggy 
atmosphere  native  to  my  soul  in  the  hour  of  care  which  makes 
the  dreary  objects  seem  larger  than  life."  The  objects  seen  by 
imagination ;  and  he  who  suffers  thus  cannot  be  relieved  by  any 


60  «  THE  GENIUS  AND 


direct  applications  to  that  faculty,  only  by  those  that  touch  the 
heart — the  homelier  the  more  sanative,  and  none  so  sure  as  a 
wife's  affectionate  ways,  quietly  moving  about  the  house  affairs, 
which,  insignificant  as  they  are  in  themselves,  are  felt  to  be  little 
truthful  realities  that  banish  those  monstrous  phantoms,  showing 
them  to  be  but  glooms  and  shadows. 

And  how  fared  the  Gauger?  Why  he  did  his  work.  Currie 
says,  "  his  farm  no  longer  occupied  the  principal  part  of  his 
care  or  his  thoughts.  It  was  not  at  Ellisland  that  he  was  now 
in  general  to  be  found.  Mounted  on  horseback,  this  high-mind- 
ed poet  was  pursuing  the  defaulters  of  the  revenue  among  the 
hills  and  vales  of  Nithsdale ;  his  roving  eye  wandering  over 
the  charms  of  nature,  and  muttering  his  wayward  fancies  as  he 
moved  along."  And  many  a  happy  day  he  had  when  thus 
riding  about  .the  country  in  search  of  smugglers  of  all  sorts, 
zealous  against  all  manner  of  contraband.  He  delighted  in  the 
broad  brow  of  the  day,  whether  glad  or  gloomy,  like  his  own 
forehead ;  in  the  open  air  whether  still  or  stormy,  like  his  own 
heart.  "While  pursuing  the  defaulters  of  the  revenue,"  a 
gauger  has  not  always  to  track  them  by  his  eyes  or  his  nose. 
Information  has  been  lodged  of  their  whereabout,  and  he  delibe- 
rately makes  a  seizure.  Sentimentalists  may  see  in  this  some- 
thing very  shocking  to  the  delicate  pleasures  of  susceptible 
minds,  but  Burns  did  not ;  and  some  of  his  sweetest  lyrics,  re- 
dolent of  the  liquid  dew  of  youth,  were  committed  to  whitey- 
brown  not  scented  by  the  rose's  attar.  Burns  on  duty  was 
always  as  sober  as  a  judge.  A  man  of  his  sense  knew  better 
than  to  muddle  his  brains,  when  it  was  needful  to  be  quick-witted 
and  ready-handed  too ;  for  he  had  to  do  with  old  women  who 
were  not  to  be  sneezed  at,  and  middle-aged  men  who  could  use 
both  club  and  cutlass. 

*'  He  held  them  with  his  glittering  eye ;" 

but  his  determined  character  was  not  the  worse  of  being  ex- 
hibited on  broad  shoulders.  They  drooped,  as  you  know,  but 
from  the  habits  of  a  strong  man  who  had  been  a  laborer  from 
his  youth  upwards,  and  a  ganger's  life  was  the  very  one  that 
might  have  been  prescribed  to  a  man  like  him,  subject  to  low 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  '^ 

spirits,  by  a  wise  physician.  Smugglers  themselves  are  seldom 
drunkards — gaugers  npt  often — though  they  take  their  dram; 
your  drunkards  belong  to  that  comprehensive  class  that  cheat 
the  excise. 

Then  Burns  was  not  always  "  mounted  on  horseback  pursu- 
ing the  defaulters  of  the  revenue  among  the  hills  and  vales  of 
Nithsdale  ;"  he  sat  sometimes  by  himself  in  Friar's-Carse  Her- 
mitage. 

*•  Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead, — 
Be  thou  clad  in  russet  weed, 
Be  thou  deck't  in  silken  stole. 
Grave  these  counsels  on  thy  soul. 

"  Life  is  but  a  day  at  most, 
Sprung  from  night,  in  darkness  lost ; 
Hope  not  sunshine  ev'ry  hour. 
Fear  not  clouds  will  always  lower. 

"  As  the  shades  of  ev'ning  close, 
Beck'ning  thee  to.long  repose  ; 
As  life  itself  becomes  disease. 
Seek  the  chimney-neuk  of  ease. 
There  ruminate  with  sober  thought, 
On  all  thou'st  seen,  and  heard,  and  wrought ; 
And  teach  the  sportive  younkers  round. 
Saws  of  experience,  sage  and  sound. 
Say,  man's  true,  genuine  estimate, 
The  grand  criterion  of  his  fate. 
Is  not.  Art  thou  high  or  low  ? 
Did  thy  fortune  ebb  or  flow  ? 
Did  many  talents  gild  thy  span  r 
Or  frugal  nature  grudge  thee  one  ? 
Tell  them,  and  press  it  on  their  mind, 
As  thou  thyself  must  shortly  find. 
The  smile  or  frown  of  awful  heav'n. 
To  virtue  or  to  vice  is  giv'n. 
Say  to  be  just,  and  kind,  and  wise. 
There  solid  self-enjoyment  lies ; 
That  foolish,  selfish,  faithless  ways. 
Lead  to  the  wretched,  vile  and  base. 

"  Thus  resign'd  and  quiet,  creep 
To  the  bed  of  lasting  sleep, 


THE  GENIUS  AND 


Sleep,  whence  thou  shalt  ne'er  awake. 
Night,  where  dawn  shall  never  break, 
Till  future  life,  future  no  more, 
To  light  and  joy  the  good  restore, 
To  light  and  joy  unknown  before. 

"  Stranger,  go.    Heav'n  be  thy  guide  ! 
Quod  the  beadsman  of  Nith-side." 

Burns  acquired  the  friendship  of  many  of  the  best  families 
in  the  vale  of  Nith,  at  Friar's  Carse,  Terraughty,  Blackwood, 
Closeburn,  Dalswinton,  Glenae,  Kirkconnel,Arbigland,  and  other 
seats  of  the  gentry  old  or  new.  Such  society  was  far  more  en- 
joyable than  that  of  Edinburgh,  for  here  he  was  not  a  lion  but  a 
man.  He  had  his  jovial  hours,  and  sometimes  they  were  exces- 
sive, as  the  whole  world  knows  from  "  the  Song  of  the  Whistle." 
But  the  Laureate  did  not  enter  the  lists — if  he  had,  it  is  possible 
he  might  have  conquered  Craigdarroch.  These  were  formida- 
ble orgies ;  but  we  have  heard  "  Oh  !  Willie  brewed  a  peck  o' 
maut,"  sung  after  a  presbytery  dinner,  the  bass  of  the  modera- 
tor giving  somewhat  of  a  solemn  character  to  the  chorus. 

But  why  did  Burns  allow  his  genius  to  lie  idle — why  did  he 
not  construct  some  great  work,  such  as  a  Drama  ?  His  genius 
did  not  lie  idle,  for  over  and  above  the  songs  alluded  to,  he  wrote 
ever  so  many  for  his  friend  Johnson's  Museum.  Nobody  would 
have  demanded  from  him  a  Drama,  had  he  not  divulged  his  de- 
termination to  compose  one  about  "The  Bruce,"  with  the 
homely  title  of  "  Rob  M'Quechan's  Elshin."  But  Burns  did 
not  think  himself  an  universal  genius,  and  at  this  time  writes, 
"  No  man  knows  what  nature  has  fitted  him  for  till  he  try ;  and 
if  after  a  preparatory  course  of  some  years'  study  of  men  and 
books  I  shall  find  myself  unequal  to  the  task,  there  is  no  harm 
done.  Virtue  and  study  are  their  own  reward.  I  have  got 
Shakspeare,  and  begun  with  him,"  &c.  He  knew  that  a  great 
National  Drama  was  not  to  be  produced  as  easily  as  "  The  Cot- 
tar's Saturday  Night ;"  and  says,  "though  the  rough  material 
of  fine  writing  is  undoubtedly  the  gift  of  genius,  the  workman- 
ship is  as  certainly  the  united  efforts  of  labor,  attention,  and 
pains." 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  '88 

And  here,  one  day  between  breakfast  and  dinner  he  composed 
"Tarn  o' Shanter."  The  fact  is  hardly  credible,  but  we  are 
willing  to  believe  it.  Dorset  only  corrected  his  famous  "  To 
all  ye  ladies  now  on  land,  we  men  at  sea  indite,"  the  night  be- 
fore an  expected  engagement,  a  proof  of  his  self-possession  ;  but 
he  had  been  working  at  it  for  days.  Dryden  dashed  off  his 
"  Alexander's  Feast "  in  no  time,  but  the  labor  of  weeks  was 
bestowed  on  it  before  it  assumed  its  present  shape.  "  Tarn  o' 
Shanter"  is  superior  in  force  and  fire  to  that  Ode.  Never  did 
genius  go  at  such  a  gallop — setting  off  at  score,  and  making 
play,  but  without  whip  or  spur,  from  starting  to  winning  post. 
All  is  inspiration.  His  wife  with  her  weans  a  little  way  aside 
among  the  broom  watched  him  at  work  as  he  was  striding  up 
and  down  the  brow  of  the  Scaur,  and  reciting  to  himself  like 
one  demented, 

"  Now  Tam,  0  Tarn  !  had  they  been  queans, 
A'  plun\p  and  strapping,  in  their  teens  ; 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  flannen. 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen  hunder  linen  I 
Thir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair. 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  guid  blue  hair, 
T  wad  hae  gi'n  them  afF  my  hurdies. 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonnie  burdies  !" 

His  bonnie  Jean  must  have  been  sorely  perplexed — but  she 
was  familiar  with  all  his  moods,  and  like  a  good  wife  left  him 
to  his  cogitations.  It  is  "  all  made  out  of  the  builder's  brain  ;" 
for  the  story  that  suggested  it  is  no  story  after  all,  the  dull  lie  of 
a  drunkard  dotard.  From  the  poet's  imagination  it  came  forth 
a  perfect  poem,  impregnated  with  the  native  spirit  of  Scottish  ^ 
super^stition.  Few  or  none  of  our  old  traditionary  tales  of 
witches  are  very  appalling — they  had  not  their  origin  in  the 
depths  of  the  people's  heart — there  is  a  meanness  in  their  mys- 
teries— ^the  ludicrous  mixes  with  the  horrible — much  matter 
there  is  for  the  poetical,  and  more  perhaps  for  the  picturesque — 
but  the  pathetic  is  seldom  found  there — and  never — for  Shaks- 
peare  we  fear  was  not  a  Scotsman — the  sublime.  Let  no  man 
therefore  find  fault  with  "  Tam  o'  Shanter,"  because  it  strikes  not 


04  THE  GENIUS  AND 


a  deeper  chord.  It  strikes  a  chord  that  twangs  strangely,  and  we 
know  not  well  what  it  means.  To  vulgar  eyes,  too,  were  such 
unaccountable  on-goings  most  often  revealed  of  old  :  such  seers 
were  generally  doited  or  dazed — half  born  idiots  or  neerdoweels 
in  drink.  Had  Milton's  Satan  shown  his  face  in  Scotland,  folk 
either  would  not  have  known  him,  or  thought  him  mad.  The 
devil  is  much  indebted  to  Burns  for  having  raised  his  character 
without  impairing  his  individuality — 

"  O  thou  !  whatever  title  suit  thee, 
Auld  Hornie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie, 
Wha  in  yon  cavern  grim  an'  sootie, 

Closed  under  hatches, 
Spairges  about  the  brumstane  cootie. 

To  scaud  poor  wretches. 

*'  Hear  me,  auld  Hangie,  for  a  wee, 
An'  let  poor  damned  bodies  be  ; 
I'm  sure  sma'  pleasure  it  can  gie, 
E'en  to  a  deHl, 
To  skelp  an'  scaud  poor  dogs  like  me, 
An'  hear  us  squeel  ?" 

This  is  conciliatory ;  and  we  think  we  see  him  smile.  We 
can  almost  believe  for  a  moment,  that  it  does  give  him  no  great 
pleasure,  that  he  is  not  inaccessible  to  pity,  and  at  times  would 
fain  devolve  his  duty  upon  other  hands,  though  we  cannot  expect 
him  to  resign.  The  poet  knows  that  he  is  the  Prince  of  the 
Air. 

"  Great  is  thy  pow'r  an'  great  thy  fame ; 
Far  kend  and  noted  is  thy  name ; 
An'  tho'  yon  lowin  heugh's  thy  hame. 

Thou  travels  far ; 
An'  faith  !  thou's  neither  lag  nor  lame. 

Nor  blate  nor  scaur. 

"  Whyles,  ranging  like  a  roarin  lion, 
For  prey,  a'  holes  an'  corners  tryin' ; 
Whyles  on  the  strong-wing'd  tempest  flyin', 

Tirling  the  kirks ; 
Whyles,  m  the  human  bosom  prying. 

Unseen  thou  lurks.' 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  96 

That  is  magnificent — Milton's  self  would  have  thought  so— < 
and  it  could  have  been  written  by  no  man  who  had  not  studied 
scripture.  The  Address  is  seen  to  take  ;  the  Old  Intrusionist  is 
glorified  by  "  tirling  the  kirks ;  "  and  the  poet  thinks  it  right  to 
lower  his  pride. 

"  Fve  heard  mi/ reverend  Grannie  sai/, 

In  lanely  glens  ye  like  to  stray  : 
Or  where  auld-ruin'd  castles,  grey, 

Nod  to  the  moon, 
Ye  fright  the  nightly  wand'rer's  way, 

Wi'  eldritch  croon. 

^  "  When  twilight  did  my  Grannie  summon 

To  say  her  prayers,  douce,  honest  woman  ! 
Aft  yont  the  dyke  she's  heard  you  bummin, 

Wi'  eerie  drone ; 
Or,  rustlin'  through  the  boortrees  comin' 
Wi'  heavy  groan. 

"  Ae  dreary,  windy,  winter  night. 
The  stars  shot  down  wi'  sklentin'  light, 
Wi'  yjDU,  mysel,  I  gat  a  fright, 

Ayont  the  lough ; 
Ye,  like  a  rash-bush,  stood  in  sight, 

Wi'  waving  sugh." 

Throughout  the  whole  Address,  the  elements  are  so  combined 
in  him,  as  to  give  the  world  "  assurance  o'  a  deil ;  "  but  then  it 
is  the  Deil  of  Scotland. 

Just  so  in  "  Tam  o'  Shanter."  We  know  not  what  some  great 
German  genius  like  Goethe  might  have  made  of  him ;  but  we 
much  mistake  the  matter,  if  "  Tam  o'  Shanter "  at  Alloway 
Kirk  be  not  as  exemplary  a  piece  of  humanity  as  Faustus  on 
May-day  Night  upon  the  Hartz  Mountains.  Faust  does  not  well 
know  what  he  would  be  at,  but  Tam  does ;  and  though  his  views 
of  human  life  be  rather  hazy,  he  has  glimpses  given  him  of  the 
invisible  world.  His  wife — but  her  tongue  was  no  scandal- 
calls  him 

"  A  skellum, 
A  blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum ; 
That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  was  nae  sober. 
That  ilka  melder,  wi'  the  miller, 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller ; 
6 


THE  GENIUS  AND 


That  ev'ry  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on, 
The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on, 
That  at  the  L — d's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirton  Jean  till  Monday. 
She  prophesy'd,  that  late  or  soon, 

#Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown'd  in  Doon  ; 
Or  catch'd  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk. 
By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk." 

That  is  her  view  of  the  subject ;  but  what  is  Tarn's  ?  The  same 
as  ^^£xdsworth's, — "  He  sits  down  to  his  cups,  while  the  storm 
is  roaring,  and  heaven  and  earth  are  in  confusion  ;  the  night  is 
driven  on  by  song  and  tumultuous  noise;  laughter  and  jests 
thicken  as  the  beverage  improves  upon  the  palate;  conjugal 
fidelity  archly  bends  to  the  service  of  general  benevolence ;  sel- 
fishness is  not  absent,  but  wearing  the  mask  of  social  cordiality ; 
and  while  these  various  elements  of  humanity  are  blended  into 
one  proud  and  happy  composition  of  elated  spirits,  the  anger  of 
the  tempest  without  doors  only  heightens  and  sets  off  the  enjoy- 
ment within.  I  pity  him  who  cannot  perceive  that,  in  all  this, 
though  there  was  no  moral  purpose,  there  is  a  moral  effect. 

*  Kings  may  be  blest  but  Tam  was  glorious. 
O'er  a'  the  ills  of  life  victorious.' 

■ —  What  a  lesson  do  these  words  convey  of  charitable  indulgence 
for  the  vicious  habits  of  the  principal , actor  in  the  scene  and  of 
those  who  resemble  him !  Men  who,  to  the  rigidly  virtuous,  are 
objects  almost  of  loathing,  and  whom  therefore  they  cannot 
i  serve.  The  poet,  penetrating  the  unsightly  and  disgusting  sur- 
\, faces  of  things,  has  unveiled,  with  exquisite  skill,  the  finer  ties 
of  imagination  and  feeling  that  often  bind  those  beings  to  prac- 
tices productive  of  much  unhappiness  to  themselves  and  to  those 
whom  it  is  their  duty  to  cherish  ;  and  as  far  as  he  puts  the  reader 
into  possession  of  this  intelligent  sympathy,  he  qualifies  him  for 
exercising  a  salutary  influence  over  the  minds  of  those  who  are 
thus  deplorably  deceived." 

We  respectfully  demur  from  the  opinion  of  this  wise  and  be- 
nign judge,  that  "  there  was  no  moral  purpose  in  all  this,  though 
there  is  a  moral  effect.'*    So  strong  was  his  moral  purpose  and 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  67 

so  deep  the  moral  feeling  moved  within  him  by  the  picture  he 
had  so  vividly  imagined,  that  Burns  pauses,  in  highest  moral 
mood,  at  the  finishing  touch, 

"  Kings  may  be  blest  but  Tam  was  glorious ; " 

and  then,  by  imagery  of  unequalled  loveliness,  illustrates  an 
universal  and  everlasting  truth : 

"  But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread. 
You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed 
Or  like  the  snow-falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white— then  melts  for  ever ; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race. 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place ; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form, 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm." 

Next  instant  he  returns  to  Tam ;  and,  humanized  by  that  ex- 
quisite poetry,  we  cannot  help  being  sorry  for  him  "  mountin'  his 
beast  in  sic  a  night."  At  the  first  clap  of  thunder  he  forgets 
Souter  Johnny — how  "conjugal  fidelity  archly  bent  to  the  ser- 
vice of  general  benevolence  " — such  are  the  terms  in  which  the 
philosophical  Wordsworth  speaks  of 

"  The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious ; 
Wi'  favors,  secret,  sweet,  and  precious  :" 

and  as  the  haunted  Ruin  draws  nigh,  he  remembers  not  only 
Kate's  advice  but  her  prophecy.  He  has  passed  by  some  fear- 
ful  places ;  at  the  slightest  touch  of  the  necromancer,  how  fast 
one  after  another  wheels  by,  telling  at  what  a  rate  Tam  rode ! 
And  we  forget  that  we  are  not  riding  behind  him, 

"  When,  glimmering  thro'  the  groaning  trees,    . 
Kirk-AUoway  seem'd  in  a  bleeze  !" 

We  defy  any  man  of  woman  born  to  tell  us  who  these  witches 
and  warlocks  are,  and  why  the  devil  brought  them  here  into 
AUoway-Kirk.     True 

«  This  night  a  child  might  understand, 
The  deil  had  business  on  his  hand  j" 


* 


^4iS  THE  GENIUS  AND 


but  that  is  not  the  question — ^the  question  is  what  business? 
Was  it  a  ball  given  him  on  the  anniversary  of  the  Fall  ? 

"  There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast; 
A  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large,  _^ 

"  To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge  :'* 

and  pray  who  is  to  pay  the  piper  ?  We  fear  that  young  witch 
Nannie ! 

"  For  Satan  glow'r'd,  and  fidged  fu*  fain, 
And  hotch'd  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main  :" 

and  this  may  be  the  nuptial  night  of  the  Prince — for  that  tyke 
is  he — of  the  Fallen  Angels ! 

How  was  Tarn  able  to  stand  the  sight,  "  glorious  and  heroic" 
as  he  was,  of  the  open  presses  ? 

*'  Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 
That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses ; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantraip  slight. 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light." 

Because  show  a  man  some  sight  that  is  altogether  miraculously 
dreadful,  and  he  either  faints  or  feels  no  fear.  Or  say  rather, 
let  a  man  stand  the  first  glower  at  it,  and  he  will  make  compar- 
atively light  of  the  details.  There  was  Auld  Nick  himself, 
there  was  no  mistaking  him,  and  there  were 

"  Wither'd  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie  hags  wad  spean  a  foal, 
Lowping  an'  flinging — " 

to  such  dancing  what  cared  Tam  who  held  the  candle  ?  He 
was  bedevilled,  bewarlocked  and  bewitched,  and  therefore 

"  Able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 
A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims; 
Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristen'd  bairns ; 
A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  a  rape, 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape ; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  bluid  red  rusted ; 
\  Five  scimitars,  wi'  murder  crusted; 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  69 

A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled ; 
A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled. 
Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft. 
The  grey  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft." 

This  collection  has  all  the  effect  of  a  selection.  The  bodies 
were  not  placed  there ;  but  following  each  other's  heels,  they 
stretched  themselves  out  of  their  own  accord  upon  the  haly  ta- 
ble. They  had  received  a  summons  to  the  festival,  which  mur- 
derer and  murdered  must  obey.  But  mind  ye.  Tarn  could  not 
see  what  you  see.  Who  told  him  that  that  garter  had  strangled 
a  babe  ?  That  that  was  a  parricide's  knife  ?  Nobody — and 
that  is  a  flaw.  For  Tam  looks  with  his  bodily  eyes  only,  and 
can  know  only  what  they  show  him  ;  but  Burns  knew  it,  and 
believed  Tam  knew  it  too ;  and  we  know  it  for  Burns  tells  us, 
and  we  believe  Tam  as  wise  as  ourselves  ;  for  we  almost  turn 
Tam — the  poet  himself  being  the  only  real  warlock  of  them  all. 

You  know  why  that  Haly  Table  is  so  pleasant  to  the  apples 
of  all  those  evil  eyes  ?  They  feed  upon  the  dead,  not  merely  be- 
cause they  love  wickedness,  but  because  they  inspire  it  into  the 
quick.  Who  ever  murdered  his  father  but  at  the  instigation  of 
that  "  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large  ?"  Who  but  for  him 
ever  strangled  her  new-born  child  ?  Scimitars  and  tomahawks  f 
Why,  such  weapons  never  were  in  use  in  Scotland.  True. 
But  they  have  long  been  in  use  in  the  wilderness  of  the  western 
world,  and  among  the  orient  cities  of  Mahoun,  and  his  empire 
extends  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth. 

And  here  we  shall  say  a  few  words,  which  perhaps  were  ex- 
pected from  us  when  speaking  a  little  while  ago  of  some  of  his 
first  productions,  about  Burns's  humorous  strains,  more  especially 
those  in  which  he  has  sung  the  praises  of  joviality  and  good  fel- 
lowship, as  it  has  been  thought  by  many,  that  in  them  are  con- 
spicuously displayed  not  only  some  striking  qualities  of  his  poet- 
ical genius,  but  likewise  of  his  personal  character.  Among  the 
countless  number  of  what  are  called  convivial  songs  floating  in 
our  literature,  how  few  seem  to  have  been  inspired  by  such  a 
sense  and  spirit  of  social  enjoyment  as  men  can  sympathize  with 
in  their  ordinary  moods,  when  withdrawn  from  the  festive  board, 
and  engaged  without  blame  in  the  common  amusements  or  recre- 


70  THE  GENIUS  AND 


ations  of  a  busy  or  studious  life  !  The  finest  of  these  few  have 
been  gracefully  and  gaily  thrown  off,  in  some  mirthful  minute, 
by  Shakspeare  and  Ben  Jonson  and  "  the  Rest,"  inebriating  the 
mind  as  with  "  divine  gas  "  into  sudden  exhilaration  that  passes 
away  not  only  without  headache,  but  with  heartache  for  a  time 
allayed  by  the  sweet  afflatus.  In  our  land,  too,  as  in  Greece  of 
old,  genius  has  imbibed  inspiration  from  the  wine-cup,  and  sung 
of  human  life  in  strains  befitting  poets  who  desired  that  their 
foreheads  should  perpetually  be  wreathed  with  flowers.  But 
putting  aside  them  and  their  little  lyres,  with  some  exceptions, 
how  nauseous  are  the  bacchanalian  songs  of  Merry  England ! 

On  this  topic  we  but  touch  ;  and  request  you  to  recollect, 
that  there  are  not  half  a  dozen,  if  so  many,  drinking  songs  in 
all  Burns.  "  Willie  brewed  a  peck  o^  maut,"  is,  indeed,  the 
chief;  and  you  cannot  even  look  at  it  without  crying,  "O  rare 
Rob  Burns !"  So  far  from  inducing  you  to  believe  that  the  poet 
was  addicted  to  drinking,  the  freshness  and  fervor  of  its  glee 
convince  you  that  it  came  gushing  out  of  a  healthful  heart,  in 
the  exhilaration  of  a  night  that  needed  not  the  influence  of  the 
flowing  bowl,  which  friendship,  neveAheless,  did  so  frequently 
replenish.  Wordsworth,  who  has  told  the  world  that  he  is  a 
water  drinker,  and  in  the  lake  country  he  can  never  be  at  a  loss 
for  his  favorite  beverage,  regards  this  song  with  the  complacency 
of  a  philosopher,  knowing  well  that  it  is  all  a  pleasant  exagge- 
ration ;  and  that  had  the  moon  not  lost  patience  and  gone  to  bed, 
she  would  have  seen  "Rob  and  Allan"  on  their  way  back  to 
Ellisland,  along  the  bold  banks  of  the  Nith,  as  steady  as  a  brace 
of  bishops. 

Of  the  contest  immortalized  in  the  "  Whistle,*'  it  may  be  ob- 
served, that  in  the  course  of  events  it  is  likely  to  be  as  rare  as 
enormous  ;  and  that  as  centuries  intervened  between  Sir  Robert 
Laurie's  victory  over  the  Dane  in  the  reign  of  James  VI.,  and 
Craigdarroch's  victory  over  Sir  Robert  Laurie  in  that  of  George 
III.,  so  centuries,  in  all  human  probability,  will  elapse  before 
another  such  battle  will  be  lost  and  won.  It  is  not  a  little 
amusing  to  hear  good  Dr.  Currie  on  this  passage  in  the  life  of 
Burns.  In  the  text  of  his  Memoir  he  says,  speaking  of  the 
poet's  intimacy  with  the  best  families  in  Nithsdale,  "  Their  so- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  71 

cial  parties  too  often  seduced  him  from  his  rustic  labors  and  his 
rustic  fare,  overthrew  the  unsteady  fabric  of  his  resolutions, 
and  inflamed  those  propensities  which  temperance  might  have 
weakened,  and  prudence  ultimately  suppressed.^^  In  a  note  he 
adds  in  illustration,  "  The  poem  of  the  Whistle  celebrates  a 
bacchanalian  event  among  the  gentlemen  of  Nithsdale,  where 
Burns  appears  as  umpire.  Mr.  Riddell  died  before  our  bard, 
and  some  elegiac  verses  to  his  memory  will  be  found  in  Volume 
IV.  From  him  and  from  all  the  members  of  his  family.  Burns 
received  not  kindness,  but  friendship ;  and  the  society  he  met 
with  in  general  at  Friar^s  Carse  was  calculated  to  improve  his 
habits,  as  well  as  his  manners,  Mr.  Fergusson  of  Craigdar- 
roch,  so  well  known  for  his  eloquence  and  social  habits,  died  soon 
after  our  poet.  Sir  Robert  Laurie,  the  third  person  in  the 
drama,  survives ;  and  has  since  been  engaged  in  contests  of  a 
bloodier  nature — long  may  he  live  to  fight  the  battles  of  his 
country  !  (1799)."  Three  better  men  lived  not  in  the  shire ; 
but  they  were  gentlemen,  and  Burns  was  but  an  exciseman  ;  and 
Currie,  unconsciously  influenced  by  an  habitual  deference  to 
rank,  pompously  moralizes  on  the  poor  poet's  "propensities, 
which  temperance  might  have  weakened,  and"  prudence  ulti- 
mately suppressed ;"  while  in  the  same  breath,  and  with  the 
same  ink,  he  eulogises  the  rich  squire  for  "  his  eloquence  and 
social  habits,"  so  well  calculated  to  "  improve  the  habits,  as  well 
as  the  manners,"  of  the  bard  and  ganger !  Now  suppose  that 
"  the  heroes  "  had  been  not  Craigdarroch,  Glenriddel,  and  Max- 
welton,  but  Burns,  Mitchell,  and  Findlater,  a  ganger,  a  super- 
visor,  and  a  collector  of  excise,  and  that  the  contest  had  taken 
place  not  at  Friar's-Carse,  but  at  Ellisland,  not  for  a  time- 
honored  hereditary  ebony  whistle,  but  a  wooden  ladle  not  a 
week  old,  and  that  Burns  the  Victorious  had  acquired  an  imple- 
ment more  elegantly  fashioned,  though  of  the  same  materials, 
than  the  one  taken  from  his  mouth  the  moment  he  was  born, 
what  blubbering  would  there  not  have  been  among  his  biogra- 
phers !  James  Currie,  how  exhortatory  !  Josiah  Walker,  how 
lachrymose  ! 

"  Next  uprose  our  Bard  like  a  prophet  in  drink  : 
*  Craigdarroch,  thou'lt  soar  when  creation  shall  sink  f 


72  THE  GENIUS  AND 


But  if  thou  would  flourish  immortal  in  rhyme. 
Come— one  bottle  more— and  have  at  the  sublime ! 

"  Thy  line,  they  have  struggled  for  Freedom  with  Bruce, 
Shall  heroes  and  patriots  ever  produce  : 
So  thine  be  the  laurel,  and  mine  be  the  bay ; 
The  field  thou  hast  won,  by  yon  bright  god  of  day  !" 

How  very  shocking !  Then  only  hear  in  what  a  culpable  spirit 
Burns  writes  to  Riddel,  on  the  forenoon  of  the  day  of  battle  ! — 
"  Sir,  Big  with  the  idea  of  this  important  day  at  Friar's-Carse,  I 
have  invoked  the  elements  and  skies  in  the  fond  persuasion  that 
they  would  announce  it  to  the  astonished  world  by  some  pheno- 
mena of  terrific  import.  Yester-night,  until  a  very  late  hour, 
did  I  wait  with  anxious  horror  for  the  appearance  of  some  comet 
firing  half  the  sky  ;  or  aerial  armies  of  conquering  Scandina- 
vians, darting  athwart  the  startled  heavens,  rapid  as  the  ragged 
lightning,  and  horrid  as  those  convulsions  of  nature  that  bury 
nations.  The  elements,  however,  seem  to  take  the  matter  very 
quietly*;  they  did  not  even  usher  in  this  morning  with  triple  suns 
and  a  shower  of  blood,  symbolical  of  the  three  potent  heroes, 
and  the  mighty  claret-shed  of  the  day.  For  me,  as  Thomson  in 
his  Winter  says  of  the  storm,  I  shall  '  Hear  astonished,  and  as- 
tonished sing.'  To  leave  the  heights  of  Parnassus  and  come  to 
the  humble  vale  of  prose,  I  have  some  misgivings  that  I  take  too 
much  upon  me,  when  I  request  you  to  get  your  guest,  Sir  Robert 
Laurie,  to  post  the  two  inclosed  covers  for  me,  the  one  of  them  to 
Sir  William  Cunninghame,  of  Robertland,  Bart.,  Kilmarnock — 
the  other  to  Mr.  Allen  Masterton,  writing-master,  Edinburgh. 
The  first  has  a  kindred  claim  on  Sir  Robert,  as  being  a  brother 
baronet,  and  likewise  a  keen  Foxite ;,  the  other  is  one  of  the 
worthiest  men  in  the  world,  and  a  man  of  real  genius ;  so  allow 
me  to  say,  he  has  a  fraternal  claim  on  you.  I  want  them  franked 
for  to-morrow,  as  I  cannot  get  them  to  the  post  to-night.  I  shall 
send  a  servant  again  for  them  in  the  evening.  Wishing  that 
your  head  may  be  crowned  with  laurels  to-night,  and  free  from 
aches  to-morrow,  I  have  the  honor  to  be,  sir,  your  deeply-indebted 
and  obedient  servant,  R.  B."  Why,  you  see  that  this  "  Letter," 
and  "  The  Whistle  " — perhaps  an  improper  poem  in  priggish 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  73 

eyes,  but  in  the  eyes  of  Bacchus  the  best  of  triumphal  odes — 
make  up  the  whole  of  Burns's  share  in  this  transaction.  He 
was  not  at  the  Carse.  The  "three  potent  heroes"  were  too  / 
thoroughly  gentlemen  to  have  asked  a  fourth  to  sit  by  with  an  I 
empty  bottle  before  him  as  umpire  of  that  debate.  Burns  that 
evening  was  sitting  with  his  eldest  child  on  his  knee,  teaching  it 
to  say  Dad — that  night  he  was  lying  in  his  own  bed,  with  bonnie 
Jean  by  his  side — and  "  yon  bright  god  of  day  "  saluted  him  at 
morning  on  the  Scaur  above  the  glittering  Nith. 

Turn  to  the  passages  in  his  youthful  poetry,  where  he  speaks 
of  himself  or  others  "  wi'  just  a  drappie  in  their  ee."  Would 
you  that  he  had  never  written  Death  and  Dr.  Hornbool^ 

*'  The  clachan  yill  had  made  me  canty, 
I  was  na  fou,  but  just  had  plenty ;  ^ 

I  stacher'd  whyles,  but  yet  took  tent  ay 

To  free  the  ditches ; 
An'  hillocks,  stanes,  an'  bushes,  kenn'd  ay 

Frae  ghaists  an'  witches. 

"  The  rising  moon  began  to  glow'r 
The  distant  Cumnock  hills  out-owre : 
To  count  her  horns,  wi'  a'  my  pow'r, 

I  set  mysel ; 
But  whether  she  had  three  or  four, 
I  cou'd  na  tell. 

"  I  was  come  round  about  the  hill , 
And  toddlin  down  on  Willie's  mill,  • 

Setting  my  staff  wi'  a'  my  skill. 

To  keep  me  sicker  : 
Tho'  leeward  whyles,  against  my  will, 
I  took  a  bicker. 

"  I  there  wi'  Something  did  forgather,"  &c. 

Then  and  there,  as  you  learn,  ensued  that  "  celestial  colloquy 
divine,'*  which  being  reported  drove  the  doctor  out  of  the  coun- 
try, by  unextinguishable  laughter,  into  Glasgow,  where  half  a 
century  afterwards  he  died  universally  respected.  Something 
had  more  to  say,  and  long  before  that  time  Burns  had  been 
sobered. 


74  THE  GENIUS  AND 


"  But  just  as  he  began  to  tell, 
The  auld  kirk-hammer  strak  the  bell 
Some  wee  short  hour  ayont  the  twal, 

Which  rais'd  us  baith : 
/  took  the  way  that  pleas'd  myseVf  *" 

And  sae  did  Death.^' 

In  those  pregnant  Epistles  to  his  friends,  in  which  his  generous 
and  noble  character  is  revealed  so  sincerely,  he  now  and  then 
alludes  to  the  socialities  customary  in  Kyle  ;  and  the  good  peo- 
ple of  Scotland  have  always  enjoyed  such  genial  pictures. 
When  promising  himself  the  purest  pleasures  society  can  afford, 
in  company  with  "  Auld  Lapraik,"  whom  he  warmly  praises  for 
the  tenderness  and  truthfulness  of  his  "  sangs  " — 

"  There  was  ae  sang,  amang  the  rest, 
Aboon  them  a'  it  pleased  me  best. 
That  some  kind  husband  had  addrest 

To  some  sweet  wife  : 
It  thirl'd  the  heart-strings  thro'  the  breast, 
A' to  the  life;" 

and  when  luxuriating  in  the  joy  of  conscious  genius  holding 
communion  with  the  native  muse,  he  exclaims — 

"  Gie  me  ae  spark  o'  Nature's  fire, 
That's  a'  the  learning  I  desire  ; 
Then  tho'  I  drudge  thro'  d^ub  an'  mire  ^p 
At  plough  or  cart,  ^^ 
My  muse,  though  hamely  in  attire. 

May  touch  the  heart ; " 

where  does  Bums  express  a  desire  to  meet  his  brother-bard  ? 
Where  but  in  the  resorts  of  their  fellow-laborers,  when  released 
from  toil,  and  flinging  weariness  to  the  wind,  they  flock  into  the 
heart  of  some  holiday,  attired  in  sunshine,  and  feeling  that  life 
is  life  ? 

•'  But  Mauchline  race,  or  Mauchline  fair, 
I  should  be  proud  to  meet  you  there ; 
We'se  gie  ae  night's  discharge  to  care, 
If  we  forgather. 
An*  hae  a  swap  o'  rhymin-ware 

Wi*  ane  anither. 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  75 

"  The  four-gill  chap,  we'se  gar  him  clatter. 
An'  kirsen  him  wi'  reekin  water ; 
Syne  we'll  sit  down  an'  tak  our  whitter. 

To  cheer  our  heart ; 
*     An*  faith  we'se  be  acquainted  better 
Before  we  part. 

**  Awa,  ye  selfish  warly  race, 
Wha  think  that  havins,  sense,  an'  grace, 
Ev'n  love  an'  friendship,  should  give  place 

To  catch  th&plack  ! 
I  dinna  like  to  see  your  face. 

Nor  hear  your  crack 

•*  But  ye  whom  social  pleasure  charms, 
Whose  hearts  the  tide  of  kindness  warms. 
Who  hold  your  being  on  the  terms, 

'  Each  aid  the  others,' 
Come  to  my  t>owl,  come  to  my  arms. 

My  friends,  my  brothers ! " 

Yet  after  all,  "  the  four-gill  chap "  clattered  but  on  paper. 
Lapraik  was  an  elderly  man  of  sober  life,  impoverished  by  a 
false  friend  in  whom  he  had  confided ;  and  Burns,  who  wore 
good  clothes,  and  paid  his  tailor  as  punctually  as  the  men  he 
dealt-  with,  had  not  much  money  out  of  seven  pounds  a  year,  to 
spend  in  "the  change-house."  He  allowed  no  man  to  pay 
his  "  lawin,"  but  neither  was  he  given  to  treating — save  the  sex  ; 
and  in  his  "  Epistle  to  James  Smith,"  he  gives  a  more  correct 
account  of  his  habits,  when  he  goes  thus  off  careeringly — 

"  My  pen  I  here  fling  to  the  door. 
And  kneel :  '  Ye  Powers !'  and  warm  implore, 
Tho'  I  should  wander  terra  o'er 

In  all  her  climes  : 
Grant  me  but  this — I  ask  no  more- 
Ay  rowth  o'  rhymes. 

"  While  ye  are  pleas'd  to  keep  me  hale, 
I'll  sit  down  o'er  my  scanty  meal, 
Be't  water-brose,  or  muslin-kail, 

Wi'  cheer fu'  face, 
As  Lang's  the  Muses  dinna  fail 

To  say  the  grace." 


76  THE  GENIUS  AND 


Read  the  "  Auld  Farmer's  New-Year  Morning  Salutation  to 
his  Auld  Mare  Maggie."  Not  a  soul  but  them-two-selves  is  in 
the  stable — in  the  farm-yard — nor  as  far  as  we  think  .of,  in  the 
house.  Yes — there  is  one  in  the  house — but  she  is  somewhat  in- 
firm, and  not  yet  out  of  bed.  Sons  and  daughters  have  long 
since  been  married,  and  have  houses  of  their  own — such  of  them 
as  may  not  have  been  buried.  The  servants  are  employed  some- 
where else  out  of  doors — and  so  are  the  "  four  gallant  brutes  as 
e'er  did  draw  "  a  moiety  of  Maggie's  "  bairn-time."  The  Ad- 
dress  is  an  Autobiography.  The  master  remembers  himself, 
along  with  his  mare — in  days  when  she  was  "  dappl't,  sleek,  and 
glaizie,  a  bonnie  grey ;"  and  he  "  the  pride  o'  a'  the  parishen." 

"  That  day  we  pranc'd  wi  muckle  pride, 
•^  When  ye  bure  hame  my  bonnie  bride  ; 

An'  sweet  an'  gracefu'  she  did  ride, 

Wi'  maiden  air ! 
Kyle  Stewart  I  could  bragged  wide, 

For  sic  a  pair." 

What  passages  in  their  common  life  does  he  next  select  to 
"  roose  "  mare  and  mas+er  ?  "  In  tug  or  tow  ?"  In  cart,  plough, 
or  harrow  ?  These  all  rise  before  him  at  the  right  time,  and  in 
a  cheerful  spirit ;  towards  the  close  of  his  address  he  grows  se- 
rious, but  not  sad — as  well  he  may ;  and  at  the  close,  as  well  he 
may,  tender  and  grateful.  But  the  image  he  sees  galloping, 
next  to  that  of  the  Broose,  comes  second,  because  it  is  second 
best:  ^  ^  ^ 

"  When  thou  an'  I  were  young  an'  skeigh. 
An'  stable-meals  at  fairs  were  dreigh. 
How  thou  wad  prance,  an'  snore,  an'  skreigh. 

An'  tak  the  road  ! 
Town's  bodies  ran,  and  stood  abeigh. 

An'  ca't  thee  mad. 

"  WTien  thou  wast  corn't,  an'  I  was  mellow, 
We  took  the  road  ay  like  a  swallow  ?" 

We  do  not  blame  the  old  farmer  for  having  got  occasionally 
mellow  some  thirty  years  ago — we  do  not  blame  Burns  for  mak- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  77 

. £__ 

ing  him  pride  himself  en  his  shame.;  nay,  we  bless  them  both  as 
we  hear  these  words  whispered  close  to  the  old  Mare's  lug : 

"  Monie  a  sair  daurk  we  twa  hae  wrought, 
An'  wi'  the  weary  warl'  fought ! 
An'  monie  an  anxious  day  I  thought 

We  wad  be  beat ! 
Yet  here  to  crazy  age  we're  brought, 

Wi'  something  yet. 

"And  think  na.  my auld  trusty  servan', 
That  now  perhaps  thou's  less  deservin. 
An'  thy  auld  days  may  end  in  starvin, 

For  my  last  fou, 
A  heapit  stimpart,  I'll  reserve  ane 

Laid  by  for  you. 

"  We've  worn  to  crazy  years  thegither : 
We'll  toyte  about  wi'  ane  anither ; 
Wi'  tentie  care  I'll  flit  thy  tether, 

To  some  hain'd  rig, 
Whare  ye  may  nobly  rax  your  leather, 

Wi'  sma'  fatigue." 

Or  will  you  turn  to  "  The  Twa  Dogs,"  and  hear  Luath,  in 
whom  the  best  humanities  mingle  with  the  canine — the  Poet's 
own  colley,  whom  some  cruel  wretch  murdered  ;  and  gibbeted 
to  everlasting  infamy  would  have  been  the  murderer,  had  Burns 
but  known  his  name  ? 

"  The  dearest  comfort  o'  their  lives, 
Their  grushie  weans  an'  faithfu'  wives ; 
The  prattling  things  are  just  their  pride. 
That  sweetens  a'  their  fireside 

"  An'  whiles  twalpenny  worth  o'  nappy 
Can  mak  the  bodies  unco  happy; 
They  lay  aside  their  private  cares, 
To  mend  the  Kirk  and  State  affairs : 
They'll  talk  o'  patronage  and  priests, 
Wi'  kindling  fury  in  their  breasts, 
Or  tell  what  new  taxation's  comin, 
An'  ferlie  at  the  folk  in  Lon'on. 


78  THE  GENIUS  AND 

^Jk_ 


"  As  bleak-fac'd  Hallowmass  returns, 
They  get  the  jovial,  rantin  kirns. 
When  rural  life,  o'  every  station, 
Unite  in  common  recreation ; 
Love  blinks,  Wit  slaps,  an'  social  Mirth 
Forgets  there's  Care  upo'  the  earth. 

"  That  merry  day  the  year  begins, 
They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  winds ; 
The  nappy  reeks  wi'  mantling  ream ; 
An'  sheds  a  heart-inspiring  steam  ; 
The  luntin  pipe,  and  sneeshin  mill. 
Are  handed  round  wi'  richt  guid  will; 
The  cantie  auld  folks  crackin  crouse, 
The  young  anes  rantin  thro'  the  house. 
My  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  them. 
That  I  for  joy  hae  barkit  wi'  them." 

Yet  how  happens  it  that  in  the  "  Halloween"  no  mention  is 
made  of  this  source  of  enjoyment,  and  that  the  parties  concerned 
pursue  the  ploy  with  unflagging  passion  through  all  its  charms 
and  spells  ?  Because  the  festival  is  kept  alive  by  the  poetic 
power  of  superstition  that  night  awakened  from  its  slumber  in  all 
those  simple  souls ;  and  that  serves  instead  of  strong  drink. 
They  fly  from  freak  to  freak,  without  a  thought  but  of  the  witch- 
eries— the  means  and  appliances  needful  to  make  them  potent ; 
this  Burns  knew  to  be  nature,  and  therefore  he  delays  all  "  crea- 
ture comforts"  till  the  end,  when  the  curtain  has  dropped  on  thai 
visionary  stage,  and  the  actors  return  to  the  floor  of  their  every- 
day world .     Th  en — 

"  Wi'  merry  sangs,  an'  friendly  cracks, 

I  wat  they  didna  weary ;  ii 

An'  unco'  tales,  an'  funny  jokes. 

Their  sports  were  cheap  an'  cheery. 
Till  butter'd  so'ns,  wi  fragrant  lunt. 

Set  a'  their  gabs  a-steerin  ; 
Syne,  wi'  a  social  glass  o'  strunt. 
They  parted  afF  careerin 

Fu'  blythe  that  night.'* 

We  see  no  reason  why,  in  the  spirit  of  these  observations, 
moralists  may  not  read  with  pleasure  and  approbation,  "  The 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  79 

Author's  Earnest  Cry  and  Prayer  to  the  Scotch  Representatives 
in  the  House  of  Commons."  Its  political  economy  is  as  sound 
as  its  patriotism  is  stirring ;  and  he  must  be  indeed  a  dunce  who 
believes  that  Burns  uttered  it  either  as  a  defence  or  an  encou- 
ragement of  a  national  vice,  or  that  it  is  calculated  to  stimulate 
poor  people  into  pernicious  habits.  It  is  an  address  that  Cob- 
bett,  had  he  been  a  Scotsman  and  one  of  the  Forty-Five,  would 
have  rejoiced  to  lay  on  the  table  of  the  House  of  Commons  ;  for 
Cobbett,  in  all  that  was  best  of  him,  was  a  kind  of  Burns  in  his 
way,  and  loved  the  men  who  work.  He  maintained  the  cause 
of  malt,  and  it  was  a  leading  article  in  the  creed  of  his  faith 
that  the  element  distilled  therefrom  is  like  the  air  they  breathe, 
if  the  people  have  it  not,  they  die.  Beer  may  be  best ;  and 
Burns  was  the  champion  of  beer,  as  well  as  of  what  bears  a 
brisker  name.  He  spoke  of  it  in  "  The  Earnest  Cry,"  and  like- 
wise in  the  "  Scotch  Drink,"  as  one  of  the  staffs  of  life  which 
had  been  struck  from  the  poor  man's  hand  by  fiscal  oppression. 
Tea  was  then  little  practised  in  Ayrshire  cottages  ;  and  we  do  not 
at  this  moment  remember  the  word  in  Burns's  Poems.  He  threat- 
ens a  rising  if  Ministers  will  not  obey  the  voice  of  the  People  : 

"  Auld  Scotland  has  a  raucle  tongue  ; 
She's  just  a  devil  wi'  a  rung ; 
An'  if  she  promise  auld  or  young 

To  tak  their  part, 
Tho'  by  the  neck  she  should  be  strung, 

She'll  no  desert." 

In  the  Postscript,  the  patriotism  and  poetry  of  "  The  Earnest 
Cry  "  wax  stronger  and  brighter — and  no  drunkard  would  dare 
to  read  aloud  in  the  presence  of  men — by  heart  he  never  could 
get  it — such  a  strain  as  this — familiar  to  many  million  ears : 

••  Let  half-starv'd  slaves,  in  warmer  skies, 
See  future  wines,  rich  clust'ring,  rise  ; 
Their  lot  auld  Scotland  ne'er  envies. 

But  blythe  and  frisky. 
She  eyes  her  freeborn,  martial  boys, 

Tak  aff  their  whisky." 


80  THE  GENIUS  AND 


"  What  tho'  their  Phoebus  kinder  warms, 
While  fragrance  blooms.,  and  beauty  charms  ; 
When  wretches  range,  in  famish'd  swarms, 

The  scented  groves. 
Or  hounded  forth,  dishonor  arms 

In  hungry  droves. 

**  Their  gun's  a  burden  on  their  shouther ; 
They  downa  bide  the  stink  o'  powther ; 
Their  bauldest  thought's  a  hank'ring  swither 

To  Stan'  or  rin. 
Till  skelp— a  shot— they're  afF,  a'  throwther. 
To  save  their  skin. 

*'  But  bring  a  Scotsman  frae  his  hill, 

.    Clap  in  his  cheek  a  Highland  gill. 

Say,  such  is  Royal  George's  will. 

An'  there's  the  foe, 
He  has  nae  thought  but  how  to  kill 
«       Twa  at  a  blow. 

"  Nae  cauld,  faint-hearted  doubtings  tease  him ; 
Death  comes,  wi'  fearless  eye  he  sees  him,; 
Wi'  bluidy  hand  a  welcome  gies  him  : 

An'  when  he  fa's. 
His  latest  draught  o'  breathin  lea'es  him 

In  faint  huzzas." 

These  are  not  the  sentiments  of  a  man  who  "  takes  an  enemy 
into  his  mouth  to  steal  away  his  brains."  Nor  is  there  anything 
to  condemn,  when  looked  at  in  the  light  with  which  genius  in- 
vests thenr,  in  the  pictures  presented  to  us  in  "  Scotch  Drink," 
of  some  of  the  familiar  scenes  of  humble  life,  whether  of  bus|| 
work,  or  as  busy  recreation,  and  some  of  home-felt  incidents  in- 
teresting to  all  that  live — such  as  "  when  skirlin  weanies  see  the 
light" — animated  and  invigorated  to  the  utmost  pitch  of  tension, 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  jaded  spirits  of  the  laboring  poor — so 
at  least  the  poet  makes  us  for  the  time  willing  to  believe — when 
unaided  by  that  elixir  he  so  fervidly  sings.  Who  would  wish 
the  following  lines  expunged  ?  Who  may  not,  if  he  chooses,  so 
qualify  their  meaning  as  to  make  them  true  ?  Who  will  not 
pardon  the  first  two,  if  they  need  pardon,  for  sake  of  the  last 
two  that  need  none  ?     For  surely  you,  who  though  guilty  of  no 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  81 

excess,  fare  sumptuously  every  day,  will  not  find  it  in  your 
hearts  to  grudge  the  "  poor  man's  wine  "  to  the  Cottar  after  that 
"  Saturday  Night "  of  his,  painted  for  you  to  the  life  by  his  own 
son,  Robert  Burns !  ♦ 


Thou  cheers  the  heart  o'  drooping  care ; 
(  Thou  strings  the  nerves  o'  labor  sair, 

At's  weary  toil ; 
4  Thou  brightens  even  dark  despair 

Wi'  gloomy  smile. 

"  Aft,  clad  in  massy  siller  weed, 
Wi'  gentles  thou  erects  thy  head  ; 
Yet  humbly  kind  in  time  o'  need, 

The  poor  man's  wine ; 
His  wee  drap  parritch,  or  his  bread. 

Thou  kitchens  fine." 

Gilbert,  in  his  excellent  vindication  of  his  brother's  character, 
tells  us  that  at  the  time  when  many  of  those  "  Rhapsodies  respect- 
ing drinking "  were  composed  and  first  published,  few  people 
were  less  addicted  to  drinking  than  he ;  and  that  he  assumed  a 
poeticaj  character,  very  different  from  that  of  the  man  at  the 
time.  It  has  been  said  that  Scotsmen  have  no  humor — no  per- 
ception of  humor — that  we  are  all  plain  matter-of-fact  people — 
not  without  some  strength  of  understanding — but  grave  to  a 
degree  on  occasions  when  races  more  favor'd  by  nature  are 
gladsome  to  an  excess :  and — 

"  In  gay  delirium  rob  them  of  themselves." 

This  judgment  on  our  national  characteristics  implies  a  familiar 
acquaintance  with  Scottish  poetry  from  Dunbar  to  Burns.  It 
would  be  nearer  the  truth — though  still  wide  of  it — to  affirm, 
that  we  have  more  humor  than  all  the  rest  of  the  inhabitants  of 
this  earth  besides ;  but  this  at  least  is  true,  that  unfortunately 
for  ourselves,  we  have  too  much  humor,  and  that  it  has  sometimes 
been  allowed  to  flow  out  of  its  proper  province,  and  mingle  itself 
with  thoughts  and  things  that  ought  for  ever  to  be  kept  sacred  in 
the  minds  of  the  people.     A  few  words  by  and  by  on  this  sub» 


82  THE  GENIUS  AND 


ject ;  meanwhile,  with  respect  to  his  "  Rhapsodies  about  Drink- 
ing," Burns  knew  that  not  only  had  all  the  states,  stages,  and 
phffses  of  inebriety  been  humorously  illustrated  by  the  comic 
genius  of  his  country's  most  popular  poeti,  but  that  the  people 
themselves,  in  spite  of  their  deep  moral  and  religious  conviction 
of  the  sinfulness  of  intemperance,  were  prone  to  look  on  its 
indulgences  in  every  droll  and  ludicrous  aspect  they  could  as- 
sume, according  to  the  infinite  variety  of  the  modifications  of 
individual  character.  As  a  poet  dealing  with  life  as  it  lay  be- 
,  fore  and  around  him,  so  far  from  seeking  to  avoid,  he  eagerly 
seized  on  these  ;  and  having  in  the  constitution  of  his  own  being 
as  much  humor  and  as  rich  as  ever  mixed  with  the  higher  ele- 
ments of  genius,  he  sometimes  gave  vent  to  its  perceptions  and 
emotions  in  strains  perfectly  irresistible — even  to  the  most  seri- 
ous— who  had  to  force  themselves  back  into  their  habitual  and 
better  state,  before  they  could  regard  them  with  due  condemna- 
tion. 

But  humor  in  men  of  genius  is  always  allied  to  pathos — its 
exquisite  touches 

"  On  the  pale  cheek  of  sorrow  awaken  a  smile, 
And  illumine  the  eye  that  was  dim  with  a  tear.  "     ^ 

So  is  it  a  thousand  times  with  the  humor  of  Burns — and  we  have 
seen  it  so  in  our  quotations  from  these  very  "  Rhapsodies."  He 
could  sit  with  "  rattling  roarin'  Willie" — and  when  he  belonged 
to  the  Crochallan  Fencibles,  "  he  was  the  king  of  a'  the  core." 
But  where  he  usually  sat  up  late  at  night,  during  those  glorious 
hard-working  years,  was  a  low  loft  above  a  stable — so  low  that 
he  had  to  stoop  even  when  he  was  sitting  at  a  deal  table  three 
feet  by  two — with  his  "  heart  inditing  a  good  matter"  to  a 
plough-boy,  who  read  it  up  to  the  poet  before  they  lay  down  on 
the  same  truckle-bed. 

Burns  had  as  deep  an  insight  as  ever  man  had  into  the  moral 
-evils  of  the  poor  man's  character,  condition,  and  life.  From 
many  of  them  he  remained  free  to  the  last ;  some  he  suffered 
late  and  early.  What  were  his  struggles  we  know,  yet  we  know 
but  in  part,  before  he  was  overcome.  But  it  does  not  appear 
that  he  thought  intemperance  the  worst  moral  evil  of  the  people, 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  83 

»r  that  to  the  habits  it  forms  had  chiefly  to  be  imputed  their 
falling  short  or  away  from  that  character  enjoined  by  the  law- 
written  and  unwritten,  and  without  which,  preserved  in  its  great 
lineaments,  there  cannot  be  to  the  poor  man,  any  more  than  the 
rich,  either  power  or  peace.  He  believed  that  but  for  "  Man's 
inhumanity  to  man,"  this  might  be  a  much  better  earth  ;  that 
they  who  live  by  the  sweat  of  their  brows  would  wipe  them  with 
pride,  so  that  the  blood  did  but  freely  circulate  from  their  hearts ; 
that  creatures  endowed  with  a  moral  sense  and  discourse  of  rea- 
son would  follow  their  dictates,  in  preference  to  all  solicitations 
to  enjoyment  from  those  sources  that  flow  to  them  in  common 
with  all  things  that  have  life,  so  that  they  were  but  allowed  the 
rights  and  privileges  of  nature,  and  not  made  to  bow  down  to  a 
servitude  inexorable  as  necessity,  but  imposed,  as  he  thought,  on 
their  necks  as  a  yoke  by  the  very  hands  which  Providence  had 
kept  free ; — believing  all  this,  and  nevertheless  knowing  and 
feeling,  often  in  bitterness  of  heart  and  prostration  of  spirit,  that 
there  is  far  worse  evil,  because  self-originating  and  self-inhabit- 
ing within  the  invisible  world  of  every  human  soul.  Burns  had 
no  reprobation  to  inflict  on  the  lighter  sins  of  the  oppressed,  in 
sight  of  the  heavier  ones  of  the  oppressor ;  and  when  he  did 
look  into  his  own  heart  and  the  hearts  of  his  brethren  in  toil 
and  in  trouble,  for  those  springs  of  misery  which  are  for  ever  well- 
ing there,  and  need  no  external  blasts  or  torrents  to  lift  them 
from  their  beds  till  they  overflow  their  banks,  and  inundate 
ruinously  life's  securest  pastures,  he  saw  the  Passions  to  which 
are  given  power  and  dominion  for  bliss  or  for  bale— of  them  in 
his  sweetest,  loftiest  inspirations,  he  sung  as  a  poet  all  he  felt  as 
a  man  ;  willing  to  let  his  fancy  in  lighter  moods  dally  with  infe- 
rior things  and  merry  measures — even  with  the  very  meat  and 
drink  that  sustains  man  who  is  but  grass,  and  like  the  flower  of 
the  field  flourisheth  and  is  cut  down,  and  raked  away  out  of  the 
sunshine  into  the  shadow  of  the  grave. 

That  Burns  did  not  only  not  set  himself  to  dissuade  poor  people 
from  drinking,  but  that  he  indited  "  Rhapsodies"  about  "  Scotch 
Drink,"  and  "  Earnest  Cries,"  will  not,  then,  seem  at  all  sur- 
prising to  poor  people  themselves,  nor  very  culpable  even  in  the 
eyes  of  the  most  sober  among  them ;  whatever  may  be  the  light 


84  THE  GEmUS  AND 


in  which  some  people  regard  such  delinquencies,  your  more-in- 
sorrow-than-anger  moralists,  who  are  their  own  butlers,  and 
sleep  with  the  key  of  the  wine-cellar  under  their  pillow ;  his 
poetry  is  very  dear  to  the  people,  and  we  venture  to  say  that 
they  understand  its  spirit  as  well  as  the  best  of  those  for  whom 
it  was  not  written  ;  for  written  it  was  for  his  own  Order — the 
enlightened  majority  of  Christian  men.  No  fear  of  their  being 
blind  to  its  venial  faults,  its  more  serious  imperfections,  and  if 
there  they  be,  its  sins.  There  are  austere  eyes  in  work-shops, 
and  in  the  fields,  intolerant  of  pollution  ;  stern  judges  of  them- 
selves and  others  preside  in  those  courts  of  conscience  that  are 
not  open  to  the  public ;  nevertheless,  they  have  tender  hearts, 
and  they  yearn  with  exceeding  love  towards  those  of  their  breth- 
ren who  have  brightened  or  elevated  their  common  lot.  Latent 
virtues  in  such  poetry  as  Burns's  are  continually  revealing  them- 
selves to  readers,  whose  condition  is  felt  to  be  uncertain, 
and  their  happiness  to  fluctuate  with  it ;  adversity  puts  to  the 
test  our  opinions  and  beliefs,  equally  with  our  habits  and  our 
practices  ;  and  the  most  moral  and  religious  man  that  ever 
worked  from  morning  to  night,  that  his  family  might  have  bread 
— daily  from  youth  upwards  till  now  he  is  threescore  and  ten — 
might  approve  of  the  sentiment  of  that  Song,  feel  it  in  all  its 
fervor,  and  express  it  in  all  its  glee,  in  which  age  meeting  with 
age,  and  again  hand  and  heart  linked  together,  the  "  trusty 
feres,"  bring  back  the  past  in  a  sun-burst  on  the  present,  and 
thoughtless  of  the  future,  pour  out  unblamed  libations  to  the 
days  "  o'  auld  lang  syne  !" 

It  seems  to  us  very  doubtful  if  any  poetry  could  become 
popular,  of  which  the  prevalent  spirit  is  not  in  accordance  with 
that  of  the  people,  as  well  in  those  qualities  we  grieve  to  call 
vices,  as  in  those  we  are  happy  to  pronounce  virtues.  It  is  not 
sufficient  that  they  be  moved  for  a  time  against  their  will,  by 
some  moral  poet  desirous,  we  shall  suppose,  of  purifying  and 
elevating  their  character,  by  the  circulation  of  better  sentiments 
than  those  with  which  they  have  been  long  familiar ;  it  is  neces- 
sary that  the  will  shall  go  along  with  their  sympathies  to  preserve 
them  perhaps  from  being  turned  into  antipathies  ;  and  that  is  not 
likely  to  happen,  if  violence  be  done  to  long-established  customs 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  85 

and  habits,  which  may  have  acquired  not  only  the  force,  but 
something  too  of  the  sanctity,  of  nature. 

But  it  is  certain  that  to  effect  any  happy  change  in  the  man- 
ners or  the  morals  of  a  people — to  be  in  any  degree  instrumental 
to  the  attainment  or  preservation  of  their  dearest  interests — a 
Poet  must  deal  with  them  in  the  spirit  of  truth ;  and  that  he 
may  do  so,  he  must  not  only  be  conversant  with  their  condition, 
but  wise  in  knowledge,  that  he  may  understand  what  he  sees, 
and  whence  it  springs — the  evil  and  the  good.  Without  it,  he 
can  never  help  to  remove  a  curse  or  establish  a  blessing ;  for  a 
while  his  denunciations  or  his  praises  may  seem  to  be  working 
wonders — his  genius  may  be  extolled  to  the  skies — and  himself 
ranked  among  the  benefactors  of  his  people  ;  but  yet  a  little 
while,  and  it  is  seen  that  the  miracle  has  not  been  wrought,  the 
evil  spirit  has  not  been  exorcised  ;  the  plague-spot  is  still  on  the 
bosom  of  his  unhealed  country  ;  and  the  physician  sink^  away 
unobserved  among  men  who  hare  not  taken  a  degree. 

Look,  for  example,  at  the  fate  of  that  once  fashionable,  for 
we  can  hardly  call  it  popular,  tale — "  Scotland's  Skaith,  or  the 
History  of  Will  and  Jean,"  with  its  Supplement,  "  The  Waes 
o'  War."  Hector  Macneil  had  taste  and  feeling — even  genius 
— and  will  be  remembered  among  Scottish  poets. 

"  Robin  Burns,  in  mony  a  ditty, 

Loudly  sings  in  whisky's  praise  ;  ♦ 

Sweet  his  sang  !  the  mair's  the  pity 
"¥  E'er  on  it  he  war'd  sic  lays. 

"  0'  a'  the  ills  poor  Caledonia 

E'er  yet  pree'd,  or  e'er  will  taste, 
Brew'd  in  hell's  black  Pandemonia — 
Whisky's  ill  will  skaith  her  maist." 

So  said  Hector  Macneil  of  Robert  Burns,  in  verse  not  quite 
so  vigorous  as  the  "  Earnest  Cry."  It  would  require  a  deeper 
voice  to  frighten  the  "  drouthy  "  from  "  Scotch  Drink,"  if  it  be 
"  brewed  in  hell."  "  Impressed  with  the  baneful  conse- 
quences inseparable  from  an  inordinate  use  of  ardent  spirits 
among  the  lower  orders  of  society,  and  anxious  to  contribute 
something  that  might  at  least  tend  to  retard  the  contagion  of  so 


THE  GENIUS  AND 


dangerous  an  evil,  it  was  conceived,  in  the  ardor  of  philanthro- 
py, that  a  natural,  pathetic  story,  in  v6rse,  calculated  to  enforce 
moral  truths,  in  the  language  of  simplicity  and  passion,  might 
probably  interest  the  uncorrupted ;  and  that  a  striking  picture 
^the  calamities  incident  to  idle  debauchery,  contrasted  with  the 
blessings  of  industrious  prosperity,  might  (although '  insufficient 
to  reclaim  abandoned  vice)  do  something  to  strengthen  and  en- 
courage endangered  virtue.  Visionary  as  these  fond  expecta- 
tions may  have  been,  it  is  pleasing  to  cherish  the  idea ;  and  if 
we  may  be  allowed  to  draw  favorable  inferences  from  the  sale 
of  ten  thousand  copies  in  the  short  space  of  five  months,  why 
should  we  despair  of  success  ?"  The  success,  if  we  may  trust 
to  statistical  tables,  has,  alas !  been  small ;  nor  would  it  have 
been  greater  had  a  million  copies  been  put  into  circulation.  For 
the  argument  illustrated  in  the  "  History  of  Will  and  Jean  " 
has  no  foundation  in  nature — and  proceeds  on  an  assumption 
grossly  calumnious  of  the  Scottish  character.  The  following 
verses  used  once  to  ring  in  every  ear : — 

"  Wha  was  ance  like  Willie  Garlace, 
Wha  in  neiboring  town  or  farm  ? 
Beauty's  bloom  shone  in  his  fair  face. 
Deadly  strength  was  in  his  arm  ? 

"  Wha  wi'  Will  could  rin,  or  wrestle, 
»  Throw  the  sledge,  or  toss  the  bar  ? 

Hap  what  would,  he  stood  a  castle. 

Or  for  safety  or  for  war  :  ^ 

"  Warm  his  heart,  and  mild  as  manfu', 
Wi'  the  bauld  he  bauld  wad  be  ; 
But  to  friends  he  had  a  handfu'. 
Purse  and  service  aft  were  free." 

He  marries  Jeanie  Millar,  a  wife  worthy  of  him,  and  for  three 
years  they  are  good  and  happy  in  the  blessing  of  God.  What 
in  a  few  months  makes  drunkards  of  them  both  ?  He  happens 
to  go  once  for  refreshment,  after  a  long  walk,  into  a  way-side 
public  house — and  from  that  night  he  is  a  lost  man.  He  is  de- 
scribed as  entering  it  on  his  way  home  from  a  Fair — and  we 
never  heard  of  a   Fair  where  there  was  no  whisky— drinks 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  87 

Meg's  ale  or  porter,  and  eats  her  bread  and  cheese  without  in- 
curring much  blame  fjtom  his  biographer ;  but  his  companion 
prevails  on  him  to  taste  **  the  widow's  gill  " — a  thing  this  bold 
peasant  seems  never  before  to  have  heard  of — and  infatuated 
with  the  novel  potion,  Willie  Garlace,  after  a  few  feeble  strug- 
gles,  in  which  he  derives  no  support  from  his  previous  life  of 
happiness,  industry,  sobriety,  virtue,  and  religion,  staggers  to 
destruction.  Jeanie,  in  despair,  takes  to  drinking  too ;  they  are 
"  rouped  out ;"  she  becomes  a  beggar,  and  he  "  a  sodger."  The 
verses  run  smoothly  and  rapidly,  and  there  is  both  skill  and 
power  of  narration,  nor  are  touches  of  nature  wanting,  strokes 
of  pathos  that  have  drawn  tears.  But  by  what  insidious  witch- 
craft  this  frightful  and  fatal  transformation  was  brought  about, 
the  uninspired  story-teller  gives  no  intimation — a  few  vulgar 
common-places  constitute  the  whole  of  his  philosophy — and  he 
no  more  thinks  of  tracing  the  effects  of  whisky  on  the«moral 
being — ^the  heart — of  poor  Willie  Garlace,  than  he  would  have 
thought  of  giving  an  account  of  the  "coats  of  his  stomach,  had 
he  been  poisoned  to  death  by  arsenic.  "  His  hero "  is  not 
gradually  changed  into  a  beast,  like  the  victims  of  Circe's  en- 
chantments ;  but  rather  resembles  the  Cyclops  all  at  once  mad- 
dened in  his  cave  by  the  craft  of  Ulysses.  This  is  an  outrage 
against  nature  ;  not  thus  is  the  sting  to  be  taken  out  of  "  Scot- 
land's  Scaith  " — and  a  nation  of  drunkards  to  be  changed  into 
a  nation  of  gentlemen.  If  no  man  be  for  a  moment  safe  who 
"  prees  the  widow's  gill "  the  case  is  hopeless,  and  despair  ad- 
-mits  the  inutility  of  Excise.  In  the  "Waes  o'  War" — the 
Sequel  of  the  story — Willie  returns  to  Scotland  with  a  pension 
and  a  wooden  leg,  and  finds  Jeanie  with  the  children  in  a  cot- 
tage given  her  by  "  the  good  Buccleugh."  Both  have  become 
as  sober  as  church-mice.  The  loss  of  a  limb,  and  eight  pounds 
a  year  for  life,  had  effectually  reformed  the  husband,  a  cottage 
and  one  pound  a  quarter  the  wife  ;  and  this  was  good  Hector 
Macneil's  idea  of  a  Moral  Poem !  A  poem  that  was  not  abso- 
lutely to  stay  the  plague,  but  to  fortify  the  constitution  against  it ; 
"  and  if  we  may  be  allowed  to  draw  favorable  inferences  from 
the  sale  of  ten  thousand  copies  in  the  short  space  of  five  months, 
why  should  we  despair  of  success  ?" 


88  THE  GENIUS  AND 


It  is  not  from  such  poetry  that  any  healthful  influence  can  be 
exhaled  over  the  vitiated  habits  of  a  people ; 

•'  With  other  ministrations,  thou,  0  Nature  ! 
^«  Healest  thy  wandering  and  distempered  child ; " 

had  Burns  written  a  Tale  to  exemplify  a  Curse,  Nature  would 
have  told  him  of  them  all ;  nor  would  he  have  been  in  aught 
unfitted  by  the  experiences  that  prompted  many  a  genial  and 
festive  strain,  but,  on  the  contrary,  the  better  qualified  to  give  in 
"  thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  burn,"  some  solution  of 
that  appalling  mystery,  in  which  the  souls  of  good  men  are  often 
seen  hurrying  and  hurried  along  paths  they  had  long  abhorred, 
and  still  abhor,  as  may  be  seen  from  their  eyes,  even  when  they 
are  rejecting  all  offered  means  of  salvation,  human  and  divine, 
and  have  sold  their  bibles  to  buy  death.  Nor  would  Burns  have 
adopted  the  vulgar  libel  on  the  British  army,  that  it  was  a  re- 
ceptacle for  drunken  husbands  who  had  deserted  their  wives  and 
children.  There  have  been  many  such  recruits ;  but  his  martial, 
loyal,  and  patriotic  spirit  would  ill  have  brooked  the  thought  of 
such  a  disgrace  to  the  service,  in  an  ideal  picture,  which  his 
genius  was  at  liberty  to  color  at  its  own  will,  and  could  have 
colored  brightly  according  to  truth.  "  One  fine  summer  evening 
he  was  at  the  Inn  at  Brownhill  with  a  couple  of  friends,  when 
a  poor  way-worn  soldier  passed  the  window :  of  a  sudden,  it 
struck  the  poet  to  call  him  in,  and  get  the  story  of  his  adven- 
tures ;  after  listening  to  which,  he  all  at  once  fell  into  one  of 
those  fits  of  abstraction,  not  unusual  with  him,"  and  perhaps, 
with  the  air  of  "TAe  mill,  mill  O"  in  his  heart,  he  composed 
"  The  Soldier's  Return."  It,  too,  speaks  of  the  "  waes  of  war ;  " 
and  that  poor  way-worn  soldier,  we  can  well  believe,  had  given 
no  very  flattering  account  of  himself  or  his  life,  either  before  or 
after  he  had  mounted  the  cockade.  Why  had  he  left  Scotland 
and  Mill-mannoch  on  the  sweet  banks  of  the  Coyle  near  Coylton 
Kirk  ?  Burns  cared  not  why ;  he  loved  his  kind,  and  above  all, 
his  own  people ;  and  his  imagination  immediately  pictured  a 
blissful  meeting  of  long-parted  lovers. 

"  I  left  the  lines  and  tented  field, 
Where  lang  I'd  been  a  lodger. 


* 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  89 

My  humble  knapsack  a'  my  wealth, 
A  poor  but  honest  sodger. 

"  A  right  leal  heart  was  in  my  breast, 
A  hand  unstained  wi'  plunder. 
And  for  fair  Scotia  hame  again, 
•  I  cheery  on  did  wander. 

I  thought  upon  the  banks  o'  Coil, 

I  thought  upon  my  Nancy, 
I  thought  upon  the  witching  smile. 
That  caught  my  youthful  fancy. 

"  At  length  I  reached  the  bonnie  glen. 

Where  early  life  I  sported ;  • 

I  passed  the  mill,  and  trysting  thorn. 

Where  Nancy  oft  I  courted : 
Wha  spied  I  but  my  ain  dear  maid, 

Down  by  my  mother's  dwelling ! 
Anfl  turned  me  round  to  hide  the  tear 

That  in  my  breast  was  swelling." 

The  ballad  is  a  very  beautiful  one,  and  throughout  how  true 
to  nature  !  It  is  alive  all  over  Scotland  ;  that  other  is  dead,  or 
with  suspended  animation  ;  not  because  "  The  Soldier's  Return" 
is  a  happy,  and  "  Will  and  Jean  "  a  miserable  story ;  for  the 
people's  heart  is  prone  to  pity,  though  their  eyes  are  not  much 
given  to  tears.  But  the  people  were  told  that  "  Will  and  Jean  " 
had  been  written  for  their  sakes,  by  a  wise  man  made  melan- 
choly by  the  sight  of  their  condition.  The  upper  ranks  were 
sorrowful  exceedingly  for  the  lower — all  weeping  over  their 
wine  for  them  over  their  whisky,  and  would  not  be  comforted  ! 
For  Hector  Macneil  informs  them  that  j^ 

"  Maggie's  club,  wha  could  get  nae  light 
On  some  things  that  should  be  clear, 
Fand  ere  long  the  fau't,  and  ae  night 
Clubb'd  and  gat  the  Gazetteer." 

The  lower  ranks  read  the  Lamentation,  for  ever  so  many 
thousands  were  thrust  into  their  hands ;  but  though  not  insensi- 
ble of  their  own  infirmities,  and  willing  to  confess  them,  they  rose 
up  in  indignation  against  a  charge  that  swept  their  firesides  of 
all  that  was  most  sacredly  cherished  there,  asked  who  wrote 


90  THE  GENIUS  AND 


"  The  Cottar's  Saturday  Night  ?  "  and  declared  with  one  voice, 
and  a  loud  one,  that  if  they  were  to  be  bettered  by  poems,  it 
should  be  by  the  poems  of  their  own  Robert  Burns. 

And  here  we  are  brought  to  speak  of  those  Satirical  composi- 
tions which  made  Burns  famous  within  the  bounds  of  more  than 
one  Presbytery,  before  the  world  had  heard  his  name.  In 'boy- 
hood and  early  youth  he  showed  no  symptoms  of  humor — he  was 
no  droll — dull  even — from  constitutional  headaches,  and  heart- 
quakes,  and  mysteries  not  to  be  understood — no  laughing  face 
had  he — the  lovers  of  mirth  saw  none  of  its  sparkles  in  his  dark, 
melancljoly  looking  eyes.  In  his  autobiographical  sketch  he 
tells  us  of  no  funny  or  facetious  "  chap-books ;  "  his  earliest 
reading  was  of  the  "  tender  and  the  true,"  the  serious  or  the 
sublime.  But  from  the  first  he  had  been  just  as  susceptible  and 
as  observant  of  the  comic  as  of  the  tragic — nature  had  given 
him  a  genius  as  powerful  over  smiles  as  tears — but  as  the  sacred 
source  lies  deepest,  its  first  inspirations  were  drawn  thence  in 
abstraction  and  silence,  and  not  till  it  felt  some  assurance  of  its 
diviner  strength  did  it  delight  to  disport  itself  among  the  ludi- 
crous images  that,  in  innumerable  varieties  of  form  and  color — 
— all  representative  of  realities — may  be  seen,  when  we  choose 
to  look  at  them,  mingling  with  the  most  solemn  or  pathetic  shows 
that  pass  along  in  our  dream  of  life.  You  remember  his  words, 
*'  Thus  with  me  began  Love  and  Poetry."  True ;  they  grew 
together ;  but  for  a  long  time  they  were  almost  silent — seldom 
broke  out  into  song.  His  earliest  love  verses  but  poorly  express  his 
love — nature  was  then  too  strong  within  him  for  art  which  then 
was  weak — and  young  passion,  then  pure  but  all-engrossing, 
was  filling  his  whole  soul  with  poetry  that  ere  long  was  to  find  a 
tongue  that  would  charm  the  world. 

It  was  in  the  Humorous,  the  Comic,  the  Satirical,  that  he  first 
tried  and  proved  his  strength.  Exulting  to  find  that  a  rush  of 
words  was  ready  at  his  will — that  no  sooner  flashed  his  fancies 
than  on  the  instant  they  were  embodied,  he  wanton'd  and  revelled 
among  the  subjects  that  had  always  seemed  to  him  the  most  risi- 
ble, whatever  might  be  the  kind  of  laughter,  simple  or  com- 
pound — pure  mirth,  or  a  mixture  of  mirth  and  contempt,  even  of 
indignation  and  scorn — mirth  still  being  the  chief  ingredient  that 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  91 

qualified  the  whole — and  these,  as  you  know,  were  all  included 
within  the  "  Sanctimonious,"  from  which  Burns  believed  the  Sa- 
cred to  be  excluded ;  but  there  lay  the  danger,  and  there  the 
blame  if  he  transgressed  the  holy  bounds. 

His  satires  were  unsparingly  directed  against  certain  ministers 
of  the  gospel,  whose  Calvinism  he  thought  was  not  Christianity  ; 
whose  characters  were  to  him  odious,  their  persons  ridiculous, 
their  manners  in  the  pulpit  irreverent,  and  out  of  it  absurd ;  and 
having  frequent  opportunities  of  seeing  and  hearing  them  in  all 
their  glory,  he  made  studies  of  them  con  amore  on  the  spot,  and 
at  home  from  abundant  materials  with  a  master's  hand  elabo- 
rated finished  pictures — for  some  of  them  are  no  less — which, 
when  hung  out  for  public  inspection  in  market-places,  brought 
the  originals  before  crowds  of  gazers  transported  into  applause. 
Was  this  wicked  ?  Wicked  we  think  too  strong  a  word  ;  but  we 
cannot  say  that  it  was  not  reprehensible,  for  to  all  sweeping  sa- 
tire there  must  be  some  exception — and  exaggeration  cannot  be 
truth.  Burns  by  his  irregularities  had  incurred  ecclesiastical 
censure,  and  it  has  not  unfairly  been  said  that  personal  spite 
barbed  the  sting  of  his  satire.  Yet  we  fear  such  censure  had 
been  but  too  lightly  regarded  by  him  ;  and  we  are  disposed  to 
think  that  his  ridicule,  however  blameable  on  other  grounds,  was 
free  from  malignity,  and  that  his  genius  for  the  comic  rioted  in 
the  pleasure  of  sympathy  and  the  pride  of  power.  To  those 
who  regard  the  persons  he  thus  satirized  as  truly  belonging  to 
the  old  Covenanters,  and  Saints  of  a  more  ancient  time,  such  sa- 
tires must  seem  shameful  and  sinful ;  to  us  who  regard  "  Rum- 
ble John  "  and  his  brethren  in  no  such  light,  they  appear  venial 
offences,  and  not  so  horrible  as  Hudibrastic.  A  good  many  years 
after  Burns's  death,  in  our  boyhood  we  sometimes  saw  and  heard 
more  than  one  of  those  worthies,  and  cannot  think  his  descrip- 
tions greatly  overcharged.  We  remember  walking  one  day — 
unknown  to  us  as  a  fast  day — in  the  neighborhood  of  an  ancient 
fortress,  and  hearing  a  noise  to  be  likened  to  nothing  imaginable 
on  this  earth  but  the  bellowing  of  a  buffalo  fallen  into  a  trap 
upon  a  tiger,  which  as  we  came  within  half  a  mile  of  the  castle 
we  discerned  to  be  the  voice  of  a  pastor  engaged  in  public  prayer. 
His  physiognomy  wa,s  little  less  alarming  than  his  voice,  and  hia 


92  THE  GENIUS  AND 


sermon  corresponded  with  his  looks  and  his  lungs — the  whole  be- 
ing indeed  an  extraordinary  exhibition  of  divine  worship.  We 
never  can  think  it  sinful  that  Burns  should  have  been  humorous 
on  such  a  pulpiteer ;  and  if  we  shudder  at  some  of  the  verses 
in  which  he  seems  yet  alive,  it  is  not  at  the  satirist. 

"  From  this  time,  I  began  to  be  known  in  the  country  as  a 
maker  of  rhymes.  Holy  Willie's  Prayer  next  made  its  appear- 
ance, and  alarmed  the  kirk-session  so  much,  that  they  held  sev- 
eral meetings  to  look  over  their  spiritual  artillery,  and  see  if  any 
of  it  might  be  pointed  against  profane  rhymers;"  "and  to  a 
place  among  profane  rhymers,'^  says  Mr.  Lockhart,  in  his  mas- 
terly volume,  "the  author  of  this  terrible  infliction  had  unques- 
tionably established  his  right."  Sir  Walter  speaks  of  it  as  "a 
piece  of  satire  more  exquisitely  severe  than  any  which  Burns  ever 
afterwards  wrote,  but  unfortunately  cast  in  a  form  too  daringly 
profane  to  be  received  into  Dr.  Currie's  collection."  We  have 
no  wish  to  say  one  word  in  opposition  to  the  sentence  pronounced 
by  such  judges  ;  but  has  Burns  here  dared  beyond  Milton, 
Goethe,  and  Byron  ?  He  puts  a  Prayer  to  the  Almighty  into  the 
mouth  of  one  whom  he  believes  to  be  one  of  the  lowest  of  blas- 
phemers. In  that  Prayer  are  impious  supplications  couched  in 
shocking  terms,  characteristic  of  the  hypocrite  who  stands  on  a 
familiar  footing  with  his  Maker.  Milton's  blasphemer  is  a  fallen 
angel,  Goethe's  a  devil,  Byron's  the  first  murderer,  and  Burns's 
an  elder  of  the  kirk.  All  the  four  poets  are  alike  guilty,  or  not 
guilty — unless  there  be  in  the  case  of  one  of  them  something 
peculiar  that  lifts  him  up  above  the  rest,  in  the  case  of  another 
something  peculiar  that  leaves  him  alone  a  sinner.  Let  Milton 
then  stand  aloof,  acquitted  of  the  charge,  not  because  of  the 
grandeur  and  magnificence  of  his  conception  of  Satan,  but  be- 
cause its  high  significance  cannot  be  misunderstood  by  the  pious, 
and  that  out  of  the  mouths  of  the  dwellers  in  darkness,  as  well 
as  of  the  Sons  of  the  Morning  "  he  vindicates  the  ways  of  God 
to  man."  Byron's  Cain  blasphemes  ;  does  Byron  ?  Many  have 
thought  so — for  they  saw,  or  seemed  to  see,  in  the  character  of 
the  Cursed,  as  it  glooms  in  soliloquies  that  are  poetically  sublime, 
some  dark  intention  in  its  delineator  to  inspire  doubts  of  the  jus- 
tice of  the  Almighty  One  who  inhabiteth  eternity.     Goethe  in 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  93 

the  "  Prologue  in  Heaven  "  brings  Mephistopheles  face  to  face 
with  God.  But  Goethe  devoted  many  years  to  "  his  great  poem, 
Faust,"  and  in  it  he  too,  as  many  of  the  wise  and  good  believe, 
strove  to  show  rising  out  of  the  blackness  of  darkness  the  attri- 
butes of  Him  whose  eyes  are  too  pure  to  behold  iniquity. .  Be  it 
even  so ;  then,  why  blame  Burns  ?  You  cannot  justly  do  so,  on 
account  of  the  "  daringly  profane  form  "  in  which  "  Holy  Wil- 
lie's Prayer"  is  cast,  without  utterly  reprobating  the  "Prologue 
in  Heaven." 

Of  the  Holy  Fair  few  have  spoken  with  any  serious  reprehen- 
sion. Dr.  Blair  was  so  much  taken  with  it  that  he  suggested  a 
well  known  emendation — and  for  our  own  part  we  have  no  hesi- 
tation in  saying,  that  we  see  no  reason  to  lament  that  it  should 
have  been  written  by  the  writer  of  the  Cottar^s  Saturday  Night. 
The  title  of  the  poem  was  no  profane  thought  of  his — it  had  ari- 
sen long  before  among  the  people  themselves,  and  expressed  the 
prevalent  opinion  respecting  the  use  and  wont  that  profaned  the 
solemnization  of  the  most  awful  of  all  religious  rites.  In  many 
places,  and  in  none  more  than  in  Mauchline,  the  administration 
of  the  Sacrament  was  hedged  round  about  by  the  self-same  prac- 
tices that  mark  the  character  and  make  the  enjoyment  of  a  Ru- 
ral Fair-day.  Nobody  doubts  that  in  the  midst  of  them  all 
sat  hundreds  of  pious  people  whose  whole  hearts  and  souls  were 
in  the  divine  service.  Nobody  doubts  that  even  among  those 
who  took  part  in  the  open  or  hardly  concealed  indecencies  whiph 
custom  could  never  make  harmless,  though  it  made  many  insen- 
sible to  their  grossness,  not  a  few  were  now  and  then  visited  with 
devout  thoughts ;  nay,  that  some,  in  spite  of  their  improprieties, 
which  fell  off  from  them  unawares,  or  were  by  an  act  of  pious 
volition  dismissed,  were  privileged  to  partake  of  the  communion 
elements.  Nobody  supposes  that  the  heart  of  such  an  assem- 
blage was  to  be  judged  from  its  outside — that  there  was  no  com- 
posed depth  beneath  that  restless  surface.  But  everybody  knows 
that  there  was  fatal  desecration  of  the  spirit  that  should  have 
reigned  there,  and  that  the  thoughts  of  this  world  were  para- 
mount at  a  time  and  place  set  apart,  under  sanctions  and  denun- 
ciations the  most  awful,  to<  the  remembrance  of  Him  who  pur- 
chased for  us  the  kingdom  of  Heaven. 


94  THE  GENIUS  AND 


We  believe,  then,  that  Burns  was  not  guilty  in  this  poem  of 
any  intentional  irreverence  tovi^ard  the  public  ordinances  of  re- 
ligion. It  does  not,  in  our  opinion,  afford  any  reason  for  sup- 
posing that  he  was  among  the  number  of  those  who  regard  such 
ordinances  as  of  little  or  no  avail,  because  they  do  not  always 
exemplify  the  reverence  which  becomes  men  in  the  act  of  com- 
muning with  their  God.  Such  is  the  constitution  of  human  na- 
ture that  there  are  too  many  moments  in  the  very  article  of  these 
solemn  occasions  when  the  hearts  of  men  are  a  prey  to  all  their 
wonted  cares  and  follies ;  and  this  short-coming  in  the  whole 
solemnity  robs  it  to  many  a  delicate  and  well-disposed,  but  not 
thoroughly  instructed  imagination,  of  all  attraction.  But  there 
must  be  a  worship  by  communities  as  well  as  by  individuals ; 
for  in  the  regards  of  Providence,  communities  appear  to  have  a 
personality  as  well  as  individuals ;  and  how  shall  the  worship 
of  communities  be  conducted,  but  by  forms  and  ceremonies, 
which  as  they  occur  at  stated  times,  whatever  be  the  present 
frame  of  men's  minds,  must  be  often  gone  through  with  cold- 
ness. If  those  persons  would  duly  consider  the  necessity  of  such 
ordinances,  and  their  use  in  the  conservation  of  religion,  they 
would  hold  them  sacred,  in  spite  of  the  levity  and  hypocrisy  that 
too  often  accompany  their  observance,  nor  would  they  wonder 
to  see  among  the  worshippers  an  unsuspected  attention  to  the 
things  of  this  world.  But  there  was  far  more  than  this  in  the 
desecration  which  called  for  "  the  Holy  Fair  "  from  Burns.  A 
divine  ordinance  had  through  unhallowed  custom  been  overlaid 
by  abuses,  if  not  to  the  extinction,  assuredly  to  the  suppression, 
in  numerous  communicants,  of  the  religious  spirit  essential  to 
its  efficacy  ;  and  in  that  fact  we  have  to  look  for  a  defence  of 
the  audacity  of  his  sarcasm ;  we  are  to  believe  that  the  Poet 
felt  strong  in  the  possession  of  a  reverence  far  greater  than  that 
which  he  beheld,  and  in  the  conviction  that  nothing  which  he 
treated  with  levity  could  be  otherwise  than  displeasing  in  the 
eye  of  God.  We  are  far  from  seeking  to  place  him,  on  this 
occasion,  by  the  side  of  those  men  who,  "  strong  in  hatred  of 
idolatry,"  become  religious  reformers,  and  while  purifying  Faith, 
unsparingly  shattered  Forms,  not  without  violence  to  the  cherished 
emotions  of  many  pious  hearts.     Yet  their  wit  too  was  often 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  95 

aimed  at  faulty  things  standing  in  close  connection  with  solemni- 
ties which  wit  cannot  approach  without  danger.  Could  such 
scenes  as  those  against  which  Burns  directed  the  battery  of  his 
ridicule  be  endured  now  ?  Would  they  not  be  felt  to  be  most 
profane  ?  And  may  we  not  attribute  the  change  in  some  measure 
to  the  Comic  Muse  ? 

Burns  did  not  need  to  have  subjects  for  ppetry  pointed  out  and 
enumerated  to  him,  latent  or  patent  in  Scottish  Life,  as  was  con- 
siderately done  in  a  series  of  dullish  Verses  by  that  excellent 
person,  Mr.  Telford,  Civil  Engineer.  Why,  it  has  been  asked, 
did  he  not  compose  a  Sacred  Poem  on  the  administration  of  the 
Sacrament  of  our  Lord's  Last  Supper  ?  The  answer  is — how 
could  he  with  such  scenes  before  his  eyes  ?  Was  he  to  shut 
them,  and  to  describe  it  as  if  such  scenes  were  not  ?  Was  he 
to  introduce  them,  and  give  us  a  poem  of  a  mixed  kind,  faithful 
to  the  truth  ?  From  such  profanation  his  genius  was  guarded 
by  his  sense,  of  religion,  which  though  defective  was  fervent,  and 
not  unaccompanied  with  awe.  Observe  in  what  he  has  written, 
how  he  keeps  aloof  from  the  Communion  Table.  Not  for  one 
moment  does  he  in  thought  enter  the  doors  of  the  House  of  God. 
There  is  a  total  separation  between  tlte  outer  scene  and  the 
inner  sanctuary — the  administration  of  the  sacrament  is  removed 
out  of  all  those  desecrating  circumstances,  and  left  to  the  imagi- 
nation of  the  religious  mind — by  his  silence.  Would  a  great 
painter  have  dared  to  give  us  a  picture  of  it  ?  Harvey  has 
painted,  simply  and  sublimely,  a  "  Hill  Sacrament."  But  there 
all  is  solemn  in  the  light  of  expiring  day  ;  the  peace  that  passeth 
all  understanding  reposes  on  the  heads  of  all  the  communi- 
cants ;  and  in  a  spot  sheltered  from  the  persecutor  by  the  soli- 
tude of  sympathizing  nature,  the  humble  and  the  contrite,  in  a 
ritual  hallowed  by  their  pious  forefathers,  draw  near  at  his 
bidding  to  their  Redeemer. 

We  must  now  return  to  Burns  himself,  but  cannot  allow  him 
to  leave  Ellisland  without  dwelling  for  a  little  while  longer  on 
the  happy  life  he  led  for  three  years  and  more  on  that  pleasant 
farm.  Now  and  then  you  hear  him  low-spirited  in  his  letters, 
but  generally  cheerful ;  and  though  his  affairs  were  not  very 
prosperous,  there  was  comfort  in  his  household.     There  was 


96  THE  GENIUS  AND 


peace  and  plenty ;  for  Mrs.  Burns  was  a  good  manager,  and  he 
was  not  a  bad  one  ;  and  one  way  and  another  the  family  enjoyed 
an  honest  livelihood.  The  house  had  been  decently  furnished, 
the  farm  well  stocked ;  and  they  wanted  nothing  to  satisfy  their 
sober  wishes.  Three  years  after  marriage,  Burns,  with  his  Jean 
at  his  side,  writes  to  Mrs.  Dunlap,  "  as  fine  a  figure  and  face 
we  can  produce  as- any  rank  of  life  whatever;  rustic,  native 
grace ;  unaffected  modesty,  and  unsullied  purity ;  nature's 
mother-wit,  and  the  rudiments  of  taste ;  a  simplicity  of  soul, 
unsuspicious  of,  because  unacquainted  with,  the  ways  of  a  selfish, 
interested,  disingenuous  world  ;  and  the  dearest  charm  of  all 
the  rest,  a  yielding  sweetness  of  disposition,  and  a  generous 
warmth  of  heart,  grateful  for  love  on  our  part,  and  ardently 
glowing  with  a  more  than  equal  return  ;  these,  with  a  healthy 
frame,  a  sound,  vigorous  constitution,  which  your  higher  ranks 
can  scarcely  ever  hope  to  enjoy,  are  the  charms  of  lovely  woman 
in  my  humble  walk  of  life."  Josiah  Walker,  however,  writing 
many  years  after,  expresses  his  belief  that  Burns  did  not  love 
his  wife.  "  A  discerning  reader  will  perceive,"  says  he,  "  that 
the  letters  in  which  he  announces  his  marriage  are  written  in 
that  state,  when  the  mind  is  pained  by  reflecting  on  an  unwel- 
come step ;  and  finds  relief  to  itself  in  seeking  arguments  to 
justify  the  deed,  and  lessen  its  disadvantages  in  the  opinion  of 
others.  But  the  greater  the  change  which  the  taste  of  Burns 
had  undergone,  and  the  more  his  hopes  of  pleasure  must  in  con- 
sequence have  been  diminished,  from  rendering  Miss  Armour 
his  only  female  companion,  the  more  credit  does  he  deserve  for 
that  rectitude  of  resolution,  which  prompted  him  to  fulfil  what 
he  considered  as  an  engagement,  and  to  act  as  a  necessary  duty 
prescribed.  We  may  be  at  the  same  time  permitted  to  lament 
the  necessity  which  he  had  thus  incurred.  A  marriage,  from 
a  sentiment  of  duty,  may  by  circumstances  be  rendered  indis- 
pensable ;  but  as  it  is  undeniably  a  duty,  not  to  be  accomplished 
by  any  temporary  exertion,  however  great,  but  calling  for  a  re- 
newal of  effort  every  year,  every  day,  and  every  hour,  it  is 
putting  the  strength  and  constancy  of  our  principles  to  the  most 
severe  and  hazardous  trial.  Had  Burns  completed  his  marriage, 
before  perceiving  the  interest  which  he  had  the  power  of  cre- 
ating in  females,  whose  accomplishments  of  mind  and  manners 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  97 

Jean  could  never  hope  to  equal ;  or  had  his  duty  and  his  pride 
permitted  his  alliance  with  one  of  that  superior  class,  many  of 
his  subsequent  deviations  from  sobriety  and  happiness  might 
probably  have  been  prevented.  It  was  no  fault  of  Mrs.  Burns, 
that  she  was  unable,  from  her  education,  to  furnish  what  had 
grown,  since  the  period  of  their  first  acquaintance,  one  of  the 
poet's  most  exquisite  enjoyments ;  and  if  a  daily  vacuity  of 
interest  at  home  exhausted  his  patience,  and  led  him  abroad  in 
quest  of  exercise  for  the  activity  of  his  mind,  those  who  can 
place  themselves  in  a  similar  situation  will  not  be  inclined  to 
judge  too  severely  of  his  error."  Mrs.  Burns,  you  know,  was 
alive  when  this  philosophical  stuff  was  published,  and  she  lived 
for  more  than  twenty  years  after  it,  as  exemplary  a  widow  as 
she  had  been  a  wife.  lis  gross  indelicacy — say  rather  wanton 
insult  to  all  the  feelings  of  a  woman,  is  abhorrent  to  all 
the  feelings  of  a  man  and  shows  the  monk.  And  we  have 
quoted  it  now  that  you  may  see  what  vile  liberties  respect- 
able libellers  were  long  wont  to  take  with  Burns  and  all  that 
belonged  to  him — because  he  was  a  Gauger.  Who  would 
have  dared  to  write  thus  of  the  wife  and  widow  of  a — Gentleman 
— of  one  who  was  a  Lady  ?  Not  Josiah  Walker.  Yet  it  passed 
for  years  unreproved — the  "  Life  "  which  contains  it  still  circu- 
lates, and  seems  to  be  in  some  repute — and  Josiah  Walker  on 
another  occasion  is  cited  to  the  rescue  by  George  Thomson  as  a 
champion  and  vindicator  of  the  truth.  The  insolent  eulogist 
dared  to  say  that  Robert  Burns  in  marrying  Jean  Armour,  "  re- 
paired seduction  by  the  most  precious  sacrifice,  short  of  life, 
which  one  human  being  can  make  to  another ! "  To  her,  in  ex- 
press terms,  he  attributes  her  husband's  misfortunes  and  mis- 
doings— to  her  who  soothed  his  sorrows,  forgave  his  sins,  inspired 
his  songs,  cheered  his  hearth,  blest  his  bed,  educated  his  chil- 
dren, revered  his  memory,  and  held  sacred  his  dust. 

What  do  you  think  was,  accoi-ding  to  his  biographer,  the  chief 
cause  of  the  blameable  life  Burns  led  at  Ellisland  ?  He  knew 
not  what  to  do  with  himself!  "  When  not  occupied  in  the  fields, 
his  time  must  have  hung  heavy  on  his  hands .'"  Just  picture  to 
yourself  Burns  peevishly  pacing  the  "  half-parlor  half-kitchen  " 
floor,  with  his  hands  in  his  breeches  pockets,  tormenting  his  dull 
8 


98  THE  GENIUS  AND 


brain  to  invent  some  employment  by  wliich  he  might  be  en- 
abled to  resist  the  temptation  of  going  to  bed  in  the  fore- 
noon in  his  clothes !  But  how  is  this  ?  "  When  not  occupied  in 
the  fields,  his  time  must  have  hung  heavy  on  his  hands ;  for  we 
are  not  to  infer,  from  the  literary  eminence  of  Burns,  that,  like 
a  person  regularly  trained  to  studious  habits,  he  could  render 
himself  by  study  independent  of  society.  He  could  read  and 
write  when  occasion  prompted ;  but  he  could  not,  like  a  profes- 
sional scholar,  become  so  interested  in  a  daily  course  of  lettered 
industry,  as  to  find  company  an  interruption  rather  than  a  relief.''^ 
We  cheerfully  admit  that  Burns  was  not  engaged  at  EUisland  on 
a  History  of  the  World.  He  had  not  sufficient  books.  Besides, 
he  had  to  ride,  in  good  smuggling  weather,  two  hundred  miles 
a-week.  But  we  cannot  admit  that  "  to  banish  dejection,  and  to 
fill  his  vacant  hours,  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  should  have  re- 
sorted to  such  associates  as  his  new  neighborhood,  or  the  inns 
upoir  the  road  to  Ayrshire,  could  afford ;  and  if  these  happened 
to  be  of  a  low  description,  that  his  constant  ambition  to  render 
himself  an  important  and  interesting  figure  in  every  society,  made 
him  suit  his  conduct  and  conversation  to  their  taste."  When 
not  on  duty,  the  Exciseman  was  to  be  found  at  home  like  other 
farmers,  and  when  "  not  occupied  in  tlie  fields  "  with  farm- work, 
he  might  be  seen  playing  with  Sir  William  Wallace  and  other 
Scottish  heroes  in  miniature,  two  or  three  pet  sheep  of  the  qua- 
druped breed  sharing  in  the  vagaries  of  the  bipeds ;  or  striding 
along  the  Scaur  with  his  Whangee  rod  in  his  fist,  with  which, 
had  time  hung  heavy  on  his  hands,  he  would  have  cracked  the 
skull  of  old  Chronos ;  or  sitting  on  a  divot-dyke  with  the  ghost 
of  Tam  O'  Shanter,  Captain  Henderson,  and  the  Earl  of  Glen- 
cairn  ;  or,  so  it  is  recorded,  "on  a  rock  projecting  into  the  Nith 
(which  we  have  looked  for  in  vain)  employed  in  angling,  with  a 
cap  made  of  a  fox's  skin  on  his  head,  a  loose  great-coat  fixed 
round  him  by  a  belt,  from  which  depended  an  enormous  High- 
land broadsword ;"  or  with  his  legs  under  the  fir,  with  the  fa- 
mous Black  Bowl  sending  up  a  Scotch  mist  in  which  were  visi- 
ble the  wigs  of  two  orthodox  English  clergymen,  "to  whose 
tastes  his  constant  ambition  to  render  himself  an  important  and 
interesting  figure  in  every  society,  made  him  suit  his  conduct 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  99 

and  conversation ;" — in  such  situations  might  Josiah  Walker 
have  stumbled  upon  Burns,  and  perhaps  met  with  his  own  friend, 
"  a  clergyman  from  the  south  of  England,  who,  on  his  return, 
talked  with  rapture  of  his  reception,  and  of  all  that  he  had  seen 
and  heard  in  the  cottage  of  EUisland,"  or  with  Ramsay  of 
Oughtertyre,  who  was  delighted  "  with  Burns's  uxor  Sahina  qualis 
and  the  poet's  modest  mansion,  so  unlike  the  habitations  of  ordi- 
nary rustics,"  the  very  evening  the  Bard  suddenly  bounced  in 
upon  us,  and  said  as  he  entered,  "  1  come,  to  use  the  words  of 
Shakspeare, '  stewed  in  haste,'' "  and  in  a  little  while,  such  was  the 
force  and  versatility  of  his  genius,  he  made  the  tears  run  down 

Mr.  L 's  cheeks,  albeit  "  unused  to  the  poetic  strain ;" — or 

who  knows  but  the  pedestrian  might  have  found  the  poet  engaged 
in  religious  exercises  under  the  sylvan  shade  ?  For  did  he  not 
write  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  "  I  own  myself  so  little  of  a  presbyterian, 
that  I  approve  of  set  times  and  seasons  of  more  than  ordinary  acts 
of  devotion,  for  breaking  in  on  that  habitual  routine  of  life  and 
thought  which  is  so  apt  to  reduce  our  existence  to  a  kind  of  in- 
stinct, or  even  sometimes,  and  with  some  minds,  to  a  state  very 
little  superior  to  mere  machinery.  This  day  (New- Year-day 
morning),  the  first  Sunday  of  May,  a  breezy  blue-skyed  noon, 
some  time  before  ihe  beginning,  and  a  hoary  morning  and  calm 
sunny  day  about  the  end  of  autumn ;  these,  time  out  of  mind, 
have  been  with  me  a  kind  of  holiday."  Finally,  Josiah  might 
have  made  his  salaam  to  the  Exciseman  just  as  he  was  foldina; 
up  that  letter  in  which  he  says,  "  we  know  nothing,  or  next  to 
nothing,  of  the  substance  or  structure  of  our  souls,  so  cannot  ac- 
count for  those  seeming  caprices  or  whims,  that  one  should  be 
particularly  pleased  with  this  thing  or  struck  with  that,  which,  in 
minds  of  a  different  cast,  makes  no  extraordinary  impression.  I 
have  some  favorite  flowers  in  spring,  among  which  are  the  moun- 
tain daisy,  the  harebell,  the  foxglove,  the  wild-brier  rose,  the 
budding  birch,  and  the  hoary  hawthorn,  that  I  view  and  hang 
over  with  particular  delight.  I  never  hear  the  loud  solitary 
whistle  of  the  curlew  in  a  summer  noon,  or  the  wild  mixing  ca- 
dence of  a  troop  of  grey  plovers,  in  an  autumnal  morning,  with- 
out feeling  an  elevation  of  soul  like  the  enthusiasm  of  devotion 
or  poetry.     Tell  me,  my  dear  friend,  to  what  can  all  this  be 


300  THE  GENIUS  AND 


owing  ?  Are  we  a  piece  of  machinery,  which,  like  the  ^olian 
harp,  passive,  takes  the  impression  of  the  passing  accident  ?  Or 
do  these  workings  argue  something  within  us  above  the  trodden 
clod  ?  I  own  myself  partial  to  such  proofs  of  those  awful  and 
important  realities — a  God  that  made  all  things — man's  immate- 
rial and  immortal  nature — and  a  world  of  weal  or  wo  beyond 
death  and  the  grave." 

Burns  however  found  that  an  active  gauger,  with  ten  parishes 
to  look  after,  could  not  be  a  successful  farmer ;  and  looking 
forward  to  promotion  in  the  Excise,  he  gave  up  his  lease,  and 
on  his  appointment  to  another  district  removed  into  Dumfries. 
The  greater  part  of  his  small  capital  had  been  sunk  or  scattered 
on  the  somewhat  stony  soil  of  Ellisland ;  but  with  his  library 
and  furniture — his  wife  and  his  children — his  and  their  wearing 
apparel — a  trifle  in  ready  money — no  debt — youth,  health,  and 
hope,  and  a  salary  of  seventy  pounds,  he  did  not  think  himself 
poor.  Such  provision,  he  said,  was  luxury  to  what  either  he  or 
his  better-half  had  been  born  to — and  the  flitting  from  Ellisland, 
accompanied  as  it  was  with  the  regrets  and  respect  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, displayed  on  the  whole  a  cheerful  cavalcade. 

It  is  remarked  by  Mr.  Lockhart  that  Burns's  "  four  principal 
biographers,  Heron,  Currie,  Walker  and  Irving,  concur  in  the 
general  statement  that  his  moral  course,  from  the  time  that  he 
settled  in  Dumfries,  was  dowr^wards."  Mr.  Lockhart  has  shown 
that  they  have  one  and  all  committed  many  serious  errors  in  this 
"  general  statement,"  and  we  too  shall  examine  it  before  we 
conclude.  Meanwhile  let  us  direct  our  attention,  not  to  his 
"moral  course,"  but  to  the  course  of  his  genius.  It  continued 
to  burn  bright  as  ever,  and  if  the  character  of  the  man  corres- 
ponded in  its  main  features  with  that  of  the  poet,  which  we  be- 
lieve it  did,  its  best  vindication  will  be  found  in  a  right  under- 
standing of  the  spirit  that  animated  his  genius  to  the  last,  and 
gave  birth  to  perhaps  its  finest  effusions — his  matchless  songs. 

In  his  earliest  Journal,  we  find  this  beautiful  passage : — 

"  There  is  a  noble  sublimity,  a  heart-melting  tenderness,  in 
some  of  our  ancient  ballads,  which  show  them  to  be  the  work  of 
a  masterly  hand  :  and  it  has  often  given  me  many  a  heart-ache 
to  reflect,  that  such  glorious  old  bards — bards  who  very  proba- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  101 

bly  owed  all  their  talents  to  native  genius,  yet  have  described 
the  exploits  of  heroes,  the  pangs  of  disappointment,  and  the  melt- 
ings of  love,  with  such  fine  strokes  of  nature — that  their  very 
names  (O  how  mortifying  to  a  bard's  vanity  !)  are  now  *  buried 
among  the  wreck  of  things  which  were.'  O  ye  illustrious 
names  unknown !  who  could  feel  so  strongly  and  describe  so 
well ;  the  last,  the  meanest  of  the  Muse's  train — one  who,  though 
far  inferior  to  your  flights,  yet  eyes  your  path,  and  with  trem- 
bling wing  would  sometimes  soar  after  you — a  poor  rustic  bard, 
unknown,  pays  this  sympathetic  pang  to  your  memory  !  Some 
of  you  tell  us,  with  all  the  charms  of  verse,  that  you  have  been 
unfortunate  in  the  world — unfortunate  in  love ;  he  too  has  felt 
the  loss  of  his  little  fortune,  the  loss  of  friends,  and,  worse  than 
all,  the  loss  of  the  woman  he  adored.  Like  you,  all  his  conso- 
lation was  his  muse.  She  taught  him  in  rustic  measures  to 
complain.  Happy  could  he  have  done  it  with  your  strength  of 
imagination  and  flow  of  verse  !  May  the  turf  lie  lightly  on 
your  bonfes !  and  may  you  now  enjoy  that  solace  and  rest  which 
this  world  rarely  gives  to  the  heart  tuned  to  all  the  feelings  of 
poesy  and  love." 

The  old  nameless  song-writers,  buried  centuries  ago  in  the 
kirk-yards  that  have  themselves  perhaps  ceased  to  exist — yet 
one  sees  sometimes  lonesome  burial-places  among  the  hills, 
where  man's  dust  continues  to  be  deposited  after  the  house  of 
God  has  been  removed  elsewhere — the  old  nameless  song- writers 
took  hold  out  of  their  stored  hearts  of  some  single  thought  or 
remembrance  surpassingly  sweet  at  the  moment  over  all  others, 
and  instantly  words  as  sweet  had  being,  and  breathed  them- 
selves forth  along  with  some  accordant  melody  of  the  still  more 
olden  time  ; — or  when  musical  and  poetical  genius  happily  met 
together,  both  alike  passion-inspired,  then  was  born  another  new 
tune  or  air  soon  treasured  within  a  thousand  maidens'  hearts, 
and  soon  flowing  from  lips  that  "  murmured  near  the  living 
brooks  a  music  sweeter  than  their  own."  Had  boy  or  virgin 
faded  away  in  untimely  death,  and  the  green  mound  that  covered 
them,  by  the  working  of  some  secret  power  far  within  the  heart, 
suddenly  risen  to  fancy's  eye,  and  then  as  suddenly  sunk  away 
into  oblivion  with  all  the   wavering  burial-place  ?     Then  was 


102  THE  GENIUS  AND 


framed  dirge,  hymn,  elegy,  that  long  after  the  ^mourned  and  the 
mourner  were  forgotten,  continued  to  wail  and  lament  up  and 
down  all  the  vales  of  Scotland — for  what  vale  is  unvisited  by 
sorrow — in  one  same  monotonous  melancholy  air,  varied  only 
as  each  separate  singer  had  her  heart  touched,  and  her  face 
saddened,  with  a  fainter  or  stronger  shade  of  pity  or  grief! 
Had  some  great  battle  been  lost  and  won,  and  to  the  shepherd 
on  the  braes  had  a  faint  and  far-off  sound  seemed  on  a  sudden 
to  touch  the  horizon  like  the  echo  of  a  trumpet  ?  Then  had 
some  ballad  its  birth,  heroic  yet  with  dying  falls,  for  the  singer 
wept,  even  as  his  heart  burned  within  him,  over  the  princely 
head  prostrated  with  all  its  plumes,  haply  near  the  lowly  woods- 
man, whose  horn  had  often  startled  the  deer  as  together  they 
trode  the  forest-chase,  lying  humble  in  death  by  his  young  lord's 
feet ! — O,  blue-eyed  maiden,  even  more  beloved  than  beautiful  ] 
how  couldst  thou  ever  find  heart  to  desert  thy  minstrel,  who  for 
thy  sake  would  have  died  without  one  sigh  given  to  the  disap- 
pearing happiness  of  sky  and  earth — and,  witched  by  some  evil 
spell,  how  couldst  thou  follow  an  outlaw  to  foreign  lands,  to 
find,  alas  !  some  day  a  burial  in  the  great  deep  ?  Thus  was 
enchained  in  sounds  the  complaint  of  disappointed,  defrauded, 
and  despairing  passion,  and  another  air  filled  the  eyes  of  our 
Scottish  maidens  with  a  new  luxury  of  tears — a  low  flat  tune, 
surcharged  throughout  with  one  groan-like  sigh,  and  acknow- 
ledged, even  by  the  gayest  heart,  to  be  indeed  the  language  of 
an  incurable  grief ! — Or  flashed  the  lover's  raptured  hour  across 
the  brain — yet  an  hour,  in  all  its  rapture,  calm  as  the  summer 
sea — or  the  level  summit  of  a  far  flushing  forest  asleep  in  sun- 
shine, when  there  is  not  a  breath  in  heaven  ?  Then  thoughts 
that  breathe,  and  words  that  burn — and,  in  that  wedded  verse 
and  music  you  feel  that  "  love  is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love  !" 
But  affection,  sober,  sedate,  and  solemn,  has  its  sudden  and 
strong  inspirations  ;  sudden  and  strong  as  those  of  the  wildest 
and  most  fiery  passion.  Hence  the  old  grey-haired  poet  and 
musician,  sitting  haply  blind  in  shade  or  sunshine,  and  bethink- 
ing him  of  the  days  of  his  youth,  while  the  leading  hand  of  his 
aged  Alice  gently  touches  his  arm,  and  that  voice  of  hers  that 
once  linted  like  the  linnet,  is  now  like  that  of  the  dove  in  its 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  103 

lonely  tree,  mourns  not  for  the  past,  but  gladdens  in  the  present, 
and  sings  a  holy  song — like  one  of  the  songs  of  Zion — for  both 
trust  that,  ere  the  sun  brings  another  summer,  their  feet  will  be 
wandering  by  the  waters  of  eternal  life. 

Thus  haply  might  arise  verse  and  air  of  Scotland's  old  pathe- 
tic melodies.     And  how  her  light  and  airy  measures  ? 

Streaks  of  sunshine  come  dancing  down  from  heaven  on  the 
darkest  days  to  bless  and  beautify  the  life  of  poverty  dwelling 
in  the  wilderness.  Labor,  as  he  goes  forth  at  morn  from  his 
rustic  lodge,  feels,  to  the  small  bird's  twitter,  his  whole  being 
filled  with  joy ;  and,  as  he  quickens  his  pace  to  field  or  wood, 
breaks  into  a  song.  Care  is  not  always  his  black  companion, 
but  oft,  at  evening  hour — while  innocence  lingers  half-afraid  be- 
hind, yet  still  follows  with  thoughtful  footsteps — Mirth  leads  him 
to  the  circular  seat  beneath  the  tree,  among  whose  exterior 
branches  swings,  creaking  to  and  fro  in  the  wind,  the  signboard 
teaching  friendship  by  the  close  grasp  of  two  emblematical 
hands.  And  thence  the  catch  and  troll,  while  ^  laughter  hold- 
ing both  his  sides  "  sheds  tears  to  song  and  ballad  pathetic  on 
the  woes  of  married  life,  and  all  the  ills  that  "  our  flesh  is  heir 
to." — Fair,  Rocking,  and  Harvest-home,  and  a  hundred  rural 
festivals,  are  for  ever  giving  wings  to  the  flight  of  the  circling 
year ;  or  how  could  this  lazy  earth  ever  in  so  short  a  time  whirl, 
spinning  asleep  on  her  axis,  round  that  most  attractive  but  dis- 
tant sun  ?  How  loud,  broad,  deep,  soul-and-body-shaking  is  the 
ploughman's  or  the  shepherd's  mirth,  as  a  hundred  bold  sun- 
burnt visages  make  the  rafters  of  the  old  hostel  ring  !  Overhead 
the  thunder  of  the  time-keeping  dance,  and  all  the  joyous  tene- 
ment alive  with  love  !  The  pathetic  song,  by  genius  steeped  in 
tears,  is  forgotten ;  roars  of  boorish  laughter  reward  the  fearless 
singer  for  the  ballad  that  brings  burning  blushes  on  every  female 
face,  till  the  snooded  head  can  scarcely  be  lifted  up  again  to 
meet  the  free  kiss  of  aftection  bold  in  the  privileges  of  the  festi- 
val, where  bashfulness  is  out  of  season,  and  the  chariest  maid 
withholds  not  the  harmless  boon  only  half  granted  beneath  the 
milk-white  thorn.  It  seems  as  if  all  the  pro  founder  interests  of 
life  were  destroyed,  or  had  never  existed.  In  moods  like  these, 
genius  plays  with  grief,  and  sports  with  sorrow.     Broad  farce 


104  THE  GENIUS  AND 


shakes  hands  with  deep  tragedy.  Vice  seems  almost  to  be  vir- 
tue's sister.  The  names  and  the  natures  of  things  are  changed, 
and  all  that  is  most  holy,  and  most  holily  cherished  by  us  strange 
mortal  creatures — for  which  thousands  of  men  and  women  have 
died  at  the  stake,  and  would  die  again  rather  than  forfeit  it — 
virgin  love,  and  nuptial  faith,  and  religion  itself  that  saves  us 
from  being  but  as  the  beasts  that  perish,  and  equalizes  us  with 
the  angels  that  live  for  ever — all  become  for  a  time  seeming  ob- 
jects of  scoff,  derision,  and  merriment.  But  it  is  not  so,  as  God 
is  in  heaven  it  is  not  so  ;  there  has  been  a  flutter  of  strange 
dancing  lights  on  life's  surface,  but  that  is  all,  its  depths  have 
remained  undisturbed  in  the  poor  man's  nature  ;  and  how  deep 
these  are  you  may  easily  know  by  looking,  in  an  hour  or  two, 
through  that  small  shining  pane,  the  only  one  in  the  hut,  and  be- 
holding and  hearing  him,  his  wife  and  children,  on  their  knees 
in  prayer — (how  beautiful  in  devotion  that  same  maiden  now !) 
not  unseen  by  the  eye  of  Him  who,  sitting  in  the  heaven  of  hea- 
vens, doth  make  our  earth  his  footstool. 

And  thus  the  many  broad-mirth  songs,  and  tales,  and  ballads 
arose,  that  enliven  Scotland's  antique  minstrelsy. 

To  Burns's  ear  all  these  lowly  lays  were  familiar,  and  most 
dear  were  they  all  to  his  heart :  nor  less  so  the  airs  in  which 
they  have  as  it  were  been  so  long  embalmed,  and  will  be  imper- 
ishable, unless  some  fatal  change  should  ever  be  wrought  in  the 
manners  of  our  people.  From  the  first  hour,  and  indeed  long 
before  it,  that  he  composed  his  rudest  verse,  often  had  he  sung 
aloud  "old  songs  that  are  the  music  of  the  heart;"  and  some 
day  or  other  to  be  able  himself  to  breathe  such  strains,  had  been 
his  dearest,  his  highest  ambition.  His  "genius  and  his  moral 
frame"  were  thus  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  our  old  traditionary 
ballad  poetry ;  and  as  soon  as  all  his  manifold  passions  were 
ripe,  and  his  whole  glorious  being  in  full  maturity,  the  voice  of 
song  was  on  all  occasions  of  deepest  and  tenderest  human  inter- 
est,  the  voice  of  his  daily,  his  nightly  speech.  He  wooed  each 
maiden  in  song  that  will,  as  long  as  our  Doric  dialect  is  breathed 
by  love  in  beauty's  ears,  be  murmured  close  to  the  cheek  of  In- 
nocence trembling  in  the  arms  of  Passion.  It  was  in  some  such 
dream  of  delight  that,  wandering  all  by  himself  to  seek  the 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  105 


muse  by  some  "trotting  burn's  meander,"  he  found  his  face 
breathed  upon  by  the  wind,  as  it  was  turned  toward  the  region 
of  the  setting  sun ;  and  in  a  moment  it  was  as  the  pure  breath 
of  his  beloved,  and  he  exclaimed  to  the  conscious  stars, 

"  Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  like  the  west; 
For  there  the  bonny  lassie  lives, 

The  lass  that  I  lo'e  best  !'" 

How  different,  yet  how  congenial  to  that  other  strain,  which 
ends  like  the  last  sound  of  a  funeral  bell,  when  the  aged  have 
been  buried  : 

"  We'll  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 
John  Anderson,  my  joe  !" 

These  old  songs  were  his  models,  because  they  were  models  of 
certain  forms  of  feeling  having  a  necessary  and  eternal  exist- 
ence. Feel  as  those  who  breathed  them  felt,  and  if  you  utter 
your  feelings,  the  utterance  is  song.  Burns  did  feel  as  they 
felt,  and  looked  with  the  same  eyes  on  the  same  objects.  So 
entirely  was  their  language  his  language,  that  all  the  beautiful 
lines,  and  half  lines,  and  single  words,  that,  because  of  something 
in  them  more  exquisitely  true  to  nature,  had  survived  all  the  rest 
of  the  compositions  to  which  they  had  long  ago  belonged,  were 
sometimes  adopted  by  him,  almost  unconsciously  it  might  seem, 
in  his  finest  inspirations ;  and  oftener  still  sounded  in  his  ear 
like  a  key-note,  on  which  he  pitched  his  own  plaintive  tune  of 
the  heart,  till  the  voice  and  language  of  the  old  and  new  days 
were  but  as  one ;  and  the  maiden  who  sung  to  herself  the  song 
by  her  wheel,  or  on  the  brae,  quite  lost  in  a  wavering  world  of 
phantasy,  could  not,  as  she  smiled,  choose  but  also  weep ! 

So  far  from  detracting  from  the  originality  of  his  lyrics,  this 
impulse  to  composition  greatly  increased  it,  while  it  gave  to  them 
a  more  touching  character  than  perhaps  ever  could  have  be- 
longed  to  them,  had  they  not  breathed  at  all  of  antiquity.  Old 
but  not  obsolete,  a  word  familiar  to  the  lips  of  human  beings  who 
lived  ages  ago,  but  tinged  with  a  slight  shade  of  strangeness  as 


106  THE  GENIUS  AND 


it  flows  from  our  own,  connects  tho  speaker,  or  the  singer,  in  a 
way,  though  "  mournful,  yet  pleasant  to  the  soul,"  with  past 
generations,  and  awakfens  a  love  at  once  more  tender  and  more 
imaginative  towards  "  auld  Scotland."  We  think,  even  at 
times  when  thus  excited,  of  other  Burnses  who  died  without  their 
fame ;  and,  glorying  in  him  and  his  name,  we  love  his  poetry 
the  more  deeply  for  the  sake  of  him  whose  genius  has  given  our 
native  land  a  new  title  of  honor  among  the  nations.  Assuredly 
Burns  is  felt  to  be  a  Scotchman  intus  etin  cute  in  all  his  poetry; 
but  not  more  even  in  his  "  Tam  o'Shanter  "  and  '^  Cottar's  Satur- 
day night,"  his  two  longest  and  most  elaborate  compositions, 
than  in  one  and  all  of  his  innumerable  and  inimitable  songs,  from 
"  Daintie  Davie,"  to  "  Thou  lingering  star."  We  know  too 
that  the  composition  of  songs  was  to  him  a  perfect  happiness 
that  continued  to  the  close  of  life — an  inspiration  that  shot  its 
light  and  heat,  it  may  be  said,  within  the  very  borders  of  his 
grave. 

In  his  "  Common-place  or  Scrap  Book,  begun  in  April,  1783," 
there  are  many  fine  reflections  on  Song- writing,  besides  that  ex- 
quisite invocation — showing  how  early  Burns  had  studied  it  as 
an  art.  We  have  often  heard  some  of  his  popular  songs  found 
fault  with  for  their  imperfect  rhymes — so  imperfect,  indeed,  as 
not  to  be  called  rhymes  at  all ;  and  we  acknowledge  that  we 
remember  the  time  when  we  used  reluctantly  to  yield  a  dis-  % 
satified  assent  to  such  objections.  Thus  in  "  Highland  Mary  " 
— an  impassioned  strain  of  eight  quatrains — strictly  speaking 
there  are  no  rhymes — Montgomery,  drumlie ;  tarry,  Mary ; 
hlossom,  bosom  ;  dearie,  Mary  ;  tender,  asunder  ;  early,  Mary  ; 
fondly,  kindly  ;  dearly,  Mary.  It  is  not  enough  to  say  that  here, 
and  in  other  instances,  Burns  was  imitating  the  manner  of  some 
of  the  old  songs — indulging  in  the  same  license ;  for  he  would 
not  have  done  so,  had  he  thought  it  an  imperfection.  He  felt 
that  there  must  be  a  reason  in  nature  why  this  was  sometimes  so 
pleasing — why  it  sometimes  gave  a  grace  beyond  the  reach  of 
art.  Those  minnesingers  had  all  musical  ears,  and  were  right 
in  believing  them.  Their  ears  told  them  that  such  words  as 
these — meeting  on  their  tympana  under  the  modifying  influence 
of  tune,  were  virtually  rhymes ;  and  as  such  they  "  slid  into 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  107 


their  souls."  "  There  is,"  says  iJurns  in  a  passage  unaccounta- 
bly omitted  by  Currie,  and  f^rst  given  by  Cromek — "  a  great 
irregularity  in  the  old  S^rich  songs — a  redundancy  of  syllables 
with  respect  to  that  exactness  of  accent  and  measure  that  the 
English  poetry  requires — but  which  glides  in  most  melodiously 
with  the  respective  tunes  to  which  they  are  set.  For  instance, 
the  fine  old  song  of  The  mill,  mill  O — to  give  it  a  plain  prosaic 
reading — it  halts  prodigiously  out  of  measure.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  song  set  to  the  same  tune  in  Bremner's  Collection  of 
Scotch  songs,  which  begins.  To  Fanny  fair  could  I  impart,  ^c— 
it  is  most  exact  measure  ;  and  yet,  let  them  both  be  sung  before 
a  real  critic,  one  above  the  biases  of  prejudice,  but  a  thorough 
judge  of  nature,  how  flat  and  spiritless  will  the  last  appear,  how  trite 
and  lamely  methodical,  compared  with  the  wild,  warbling  cadence 
— the  heart-moving  melody  of  the  first.  This  is  particularly  the 
case  with  all  those  airs  which  end  with  a  hypermetrical  syllable. 
There  is  a  degree  of  wild  irregularity  in  many  of  the  composi- 
tions and  fragments  which  are  daily  sung  to  them  by  my  com- 
peers— the  common  people — a  certain  happy  arrangement  of  old 
Scotch  syllables,  and  yet  very  frequently  nothing — not  even  like 
rhyme — or  sameness  of  jingle,  at  the  end  of  the  lines.  This  has 
made  me  sometimes  imagine  that  perhaps  it  might  be  possible  for 
a  Scotch  poet,  with  a  nice  judicious  ear,  to  set  compositions  to 
many  of  our  most  favorite  airs — particularly  the  class  of  them 
mentioned  above — independent  of  rhyme  altogether." 

It  is  a  common  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  world  is  indebted 
for  most  of  Burns's  songs  to  George  Thomson.  He  contributed 
to  that  gentleman  sixty  original  songs,  and  a  noble  contribution  it 
was;  besides  hints,  suggestions,  emendations,  and  restorations 
innumerable ;  but  three  times  as  many  were  written  by  him, 
emended  or  restored,  for  Johnson's  Scots'  Musical  Museum. 
He  began  to  send  songs  to  Johnson,  with  whom  he  had  become 
intimately  acquainted  on  his  first  visit  to  Edinburgh,  early  in 
1787,  and  continued,  to  send  them  till  within  a  few  days  of  his 
death.  In  November,  1788,  he  says  to  Johnson,  "  I  can  easily 
see,  my  dear  friend,  that  you  will  probably  have  four  volumes. 
Perhaps  you  may  not  find  your  account  lucratively  in  this  busi- 
ness ;  but  you  are  a  patriot  for  the  music  of  your  country,  and  I 


108  THE  GENIUS  AND 


am  certain  posterity  will  look  on  themselves  as  highly  indebted 
to  your  public  spirit.  Be  not  in  a  hurry  ;  let  us  go  on  correctly, 
and  your  name  will  be  immortal.'"  On  the  4th  of  July,  1796 — 
he  died  dh  the  21st — he  writes  from  Dumfries  to  the  worthy 
music-seller  in  Edinburgh  :  "  How  are  you,  my  dear  friend,  and 
how  comes  on  your  fifth  volume  ?  You  may  probably  think  that 
for  some  time  past  I  have  neglected  you  and  your  work  ;  but, 
alas!  the  hand  of  pain,  sorrow,  and  care,  has  these  many 
months  lain  heavy  on  me.  Personal  and  domestic  affliction  have 
almost  entirely  banished  that  alacrity  and  life  with  which  I  used 
to  woo  the  rural  muse  of  Scotia.  You  are  a  good,  worthy,  honest 
fellow,  and  have  a  good  right  to  live  in  this  world — because  you 
deserve  it.  Many  a  merry  meeting  the  publication  has  given 
us,  and  possibly  it  may  give  us  more,  though,  alas !  I  fear  it. 
This  protracting,  slow,  consuming  illness  which  hangs  over  me, 
will,  I  doubt  much,  my  ever  dear  friend,  arrest  my  sun  before 
he  has  well  reached  his  middle  career,  and  will  turn  over  the 
poet  to  far  more  important  concerns  than  studying  the  brilliancy  of 
wit,  or  the  pathos  of  sentiment.  However,  hope  is  the  cordial  of  the 
human  heart,  and  I  endeavor  to  cherish  it  as  well  as  I  can.  Let 
me  hear  from  you  as  soon  as  convenient.  Your  work  is  a  great 
one,  and  now  that  it  is  finished,  I  see,  if  I  were  to  begin  again, 
two  or  three  things  that  might  be  mended.;  yet  I  will  venture  to 
prophesy,  that  to  future  ages  your  publication  will  be  the  text- 
book and  standard  of  Scottish  song  and  music.  I  am  ashamed 
to  ask  another  favor  of  you,  because  you  have  been  so  very  good 
already ;  but  my  wife  has  a  very  particular  friend  of  hers — a 
young  lady  who  sings  well — to  whom  she  wishes  to  present  the 
Scots^  Musical  Museum.  If  you  have  a  spare  copy,  will  you  be 
so  obliging  as  to  send  it  by  the  first  Fly,  as  I  am  anxious  to  have 
it  soon." 

Turn  from  James  Johnson  and  his  Scots^  Musical  Museum 
for  a  moment  to  George  Thomson  and  his  Collection.  In  Sep- 
tember, 1792,  Mr.  Thomson — who  never  personally  knew  Burns 
— tells  him  "  for  some  years  past  I  have,  with  a  friend  or  two, 
employed  many  leisure  hours  in  selecting  and  collating  the  most 
favorite  of  our  national  melodies  for  publication  ;  "  and  says — 
"  We  will  esteem  your  ooetical  assistance  a  particular  favor; 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  109 

besides  paying  any  reasonable  price  you  shall  please  to  demand 
for  it."  Burns,  spurning  the  thought  of  being  "  paid  any  rea- 
sonable price,"  closes  at  once  with  the  proposal,  "  as  the  request 
you  make  to  me  will  positively  add  to  my  enjoyments  in  comply- 
ing with  it,  I  shall  enter  into  your  undertaking  with  all  the 
small  portion  of  abilities  I  have — strained  to  the  utmost  exertion 
by  the  impulse  of  enthusiasm."  That  enthusiasm  for  more  than 
three  years  seldom  languished — it  was  in  his  heart  when  his 
hand  could  hardly  obey  its  bidding ;  and  on  the  12th  of  July, 
1796 — eight  days  after  he  had  written,  in  the  terms  you  have 
just  seen,  to  James  Johnson  for  a  copy  of  his  Scots^  Musical 
Museum — he  writes  thus  to  George  Thomson  for  five  pounds. 
"  After  all  my  boasted  independence,  stern  necessity  compels 
me  to  implore  you  for  five  pounds.  A  cruel of  a  haber- 
dasher, to  whom  I  owe  an  account,  taking  it  into  his  head  that  I 
am  dying,  has  commenced  a  process,  and  will  infallibly  put  me 
into  jail.  Do  for  God^s  sake  send  me  that  sum,  and  that  by  re- 
turn of  post.  Forgive  me  this  earnestness  ;  but  the  horrors  of 
a  jail  have  made  me  half  distracted.  I  do  not  ask  all  this  gra- 
tuitously ;  for  upon  returning  health,  I  hereby  promise  and  en- 
gage to  furnish  you  with  five  pounds  worth  of  the  neatest  song 
genius  you  have  seen.     Forgive  me,  forgive  me  !" 

Mr.  Johnson,  no  doubt,  sent  a  copy  of  the  Museum  ;  but  we 
do  not  know  if  the  Fly  arrived  before  the  Bier.  Mr.  Thomson 
was  prompt :  and  Dr.  Currie,  speaking  of  Burns's  refusal  to 
become  a  weekly  contributor  to  the  Poet's  Corner  in  the  Morn- 
ing Chronicle,  at  a  guinea  a  week,  says,  "  Yet,  he  had  for  seve- 
ral years  furnished,  and  was  at  that  time  furnishing,  the  Mu- 
seum of  Johnson,  with  his  beautiful  lyrics,  without  fee  or  re- 
ward, and  was  obstinately  refusing  all  recompense  for  his  as- 
sistance to  the  greater  work  of  Mr.  Thomson,  which  the  justice 
and  generosity  of  that  gentleman  was  pressing  upon  him." 
That  obstinacy  gave  way  at  last,  not  under  the  pressure  of  Mr. 
Thomson's  generosity  and  justice,  but  under  "  the  sense  of  his 
poverty,  and  of  the  approaching  distress  of  his  infant  family 
which  pressed,"  says  Dr.  Currie  truly,  "  on  Burns  as  he  lay  on 
the  bed  of  death." 

But  we  are  anticipating  -,  and  desire  at  present  to  see  Burns 


110  THE  GENIUS  AND 


*' in  glory  and  in  joy."  "Whenever  I  want  to  be  more  than 
ordinary  in  song ;  to  be  in  some  degree  equal  to  your  diviner 
airs,  do  you  imagine  I  fast  and  pray  for  the  celestial  emanation  ? 
I  have  a  glorious  recipe  ;  the  very  one  that  for  his  own  use  v/as 
invented  by  the  divinity  of  healing  and  poetry,  when  erst  he  piped 
to  the  flocks  of  Admetus.  I  put  myself  on  a  regimen  of  admir- 
ing  a  fine  woman ;  and  in  proportion  to  the  admirability  of  her 
charms,  in  proportion  you  are  delighted  with  my  verses.  The 
lightning  of  her  eye  is  the  godhead  of  Parnassus ;  and  the 
witchery  of  her  smile,  the  divinity  of  Helicon."  We  know  the 
weak  side  of  his  character — the  sin  that  m.ost  easily  beset  him — 
that  did  indeed  "  stain  his  name" — and  made  him  for  many  sea- 
sons the  prey  of  remorse.  But  though  it  is  not  allowed  to  genius 
to  redeem — though  it  is  falsely  said,  that  "  the  light  that  leads 
astray  is  light  from  heaven"— and  though  Burns's  transgres- 
sions must  be  judged  as  those  of  common  men,  and  visited  with 
the  same  moral  reprobation — yet  surely  we  may  dismiss  them 
with  a  sigh  from  our  knowledge,  for  a  while,  as  we  feel  the  charm 
of  the  exquisite  poetry  originating  in  the  inspiration  of  passion, 
purified  by  genius,  and  congenial  with  the  utmost  innocency  of 
the  virgin  breast. 

In  his  LovE-SoNGS,  all  that  is  best  in  his  own  being  delights  to 
bring  itself  into  communion  with  all  that  is  best  in  theirs  whom 
he  visions  walking  before  him  in  beauty.  That  beauty  is 
made  "  still  more  beauteous"  in  the  light  of  his  genius,  and  the 
passion  it  then  moves  partakes  of  the  same  etherial  color.  If 
love  inspired  his  poetry,  poetry  inspired  his  love,  and  not  only  in- 
spired but  elevated  the  whole  nature  of  it.  If  the  highest  de- 
lights of  his  genius  were  in  the  conception  and  celebration  of 
female  loveliness,  that  trained  sensibility  was  sure  to  produce 
extraordinary  devotion  to  the  ideal  of  that  loveliness  of  which 
innocence  is  the  very  soul.  If  music  refine  the  manners,  how 
much  more  will  it  have  that  effect  on  him  who  studies  its  spirit, 
as  Burns  did  that  of  the  Scottish  songs,  in  order  to  marry  them 
to  verse  ?  "  Until  I  am  complete  master  of  a  tune  in  my  own 
singing,  such  as  it  is,  I  can  never  compose  for  it.  My  way  is 
this :  I  consider  the  poetic  sentiment  correspondent  to  my  idea 
of  the  musical  expression — then   choose   my  theme — compose 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  Ill 

one  stanza.  When  that  is  composed,  which  is  generally  the 
most  difficult  part  of  the  business,  I  walk  out,  sit  down  now  and 
then,  look  out  for  objects  in  nature  round  me  that  are  in  unison 
or  harmony  with  the  cogitations  of  my  fancy  and  workings  of 
my  bosom,  humming  every  now  and  then  the  air,  with  the  verses 
I  have  framed.  When  I  feel  my  muse  beginning  to  jade,  I  re- 
tire to  the  solitary  fireside  of  my  study,  and  there  commit  my 
effusions  to  paper ;  swinging  at  intervals  on  the  hind  legs  of  my 
elbow  chair,  by  way  of  calling  forth  my  own  critical  strictures, 
as  my  pen  goes.  Seriously,  this,  at  home,  is  almost  invariably 
my  way."  Then  we  know  that  his  Bonnie  Jean  was  generally 
in  his  presence,  engaged  in  house  affairs,  while  he  was  thus  on 
his  inspiring  swing,  that  she  was  among  the  first  to  hear  each 
new  song  recited  by  her  husband,  and  the  first  to  sing  it  to  him, 
that  he  might  know  if  it  had  been  produced  to  live.  He  has 
said,  that  "  musically  speaking,  conjugal  love  is  an  instrument 
of  which  the  gamut  is  scanty  and  confined,  but  the  tones  in- 
expressibly sweet" — that  Love,  not  so  confined,  "  has  powers 
equal  to  all  the  intellectual  modulations  of  the  human  soul." 
But  did  not  those  "  tones  inexpressibly  sweet"  often  mingle  them- 
selves unawares  to  the  Poet  with  those  "  intellectual  modula- 
tions ?"  And  had  he  not  once  loved  Jean  Armour  to  distraction? 
His  first  experiences  of  the  passion  of  love,  in  its  utmost  sweet- 
ness and  bitterness,  had  been  for  her  sake,  and  the  memories  of 
those  years  came  often  of  themselves  unbidden  into  the  very 
heart  of  his  songs  when  his  fancy  was  for  the  hour  enamored  of 
other  beauties. 

With  a  versatility,  not  compatible  perhaps  with  a  capacity  of 
profoundest  emotion,  but  in  his  case  with  extreme  tenderness,, 
he  could  instantly  assume,  and  often  on  the  slightest  apparent 
impulse,  some  imagined  character  as  completely  as  if  it  were 
his  own,  and  realize  its  conditions.  Or  he  could  imagine  him- 
self out  of  all  the  circumstances  by  which  his  individual  life 
was  environed,  and  to  all  the  emotions  arising  from  that  trans- 
migration, give  utterance  as  lively  as  the  language  inspired  by 
his  communion  with  his  own  familiar  world.  Even  when  he 
knew  he  was  dying,  he  looked  in  Jessie  Lewars'  face,  whom 
he  loved  as  a  father  loves  his  daughter,  and  that  he  might  re- 


112  THE  GENIUS  AND 


ward  her  filial  tenderness  for  him  who  was  fast  wearing  away, 
by  an  immortal  song,  in  his  affection  for  her  he  feigned  a  hope- 
less passion,  and  imagined  himself  the  victim  of  despair ; — 

•*'  Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond  lovers  meet. 

And  soft  as  their  parting  tear — Jessy  ! 
Although  thou  maun  never  be  mine, 

Although  even  hope  is  denied ; 
'Tis  sweeter  for  thee  despairing, 

Than  aught  in  this  world  beside !" 

It  was  said  by  one  who  during  a  long  life  kept  saying  weighty 
things — old  Hobbes — that  "  in  great  differences  of  persons,  the 
greater  have  often  fallen  in  love  with  the  meaner :  but  not  con- 
trary.'' What  Gilbert  tells  us  of  his  brother  might  seem  to 
corroborate  that  dictum — "  His  love  rarely  settled  on  persons 
who  were  higher  than  himself,  or  who  had  more  consequence  in 
life."  This,  however,  could  only  apply  to  the  early  part  of  his 
life.  Then  he  had  few  opportunities  of  fixing  his  affections  on 
persons  above  him ;  and  if  he  had  had,  their  first  risings  would 
have  been  suppressed  by  his  pride.  But  his  after  destination  so 
far  levelled  the  inequality  that  it  was  not  unnatural  to  address 
his  devotion  to  ladies  of  high  degree.  He  then  felt  that  he  could 
command  their  benevolence,  if  not  inspire  their  love  ;  and  elated 
by  that  consciousness,  he  feared  not  to  use  towards  them  the 
language  of  love,  of  unbounded  passion.  He  believed,  and  he 
was  not  deceived  in  the  belief,  that  he  could  exalt  them  in  their 
own  esteem,  by  hanging  round  their  proud  necks  the  ornaments 
of  his  genius.  Therefore,  sometimes,  he  seemed  to  turn  himself 
away  disdainfully  from  sunburnt  bosoms  in  homespun  covering, 
to  pay  his  vows  and  adorations  to  the  Queens  of  Beauty.  The 
devoirs  of  a  poet,  whose  genius  was  at  their  service,  have  been 
acceptable  to  many  a  high-born  dame  and  damsel,  as  the  sub- 
mission of  a  conqueror.  Innate  superiority  made  him,  in  these 
hours,  absolutely  unable  to  comprehend  the  spirit  of  society  as 
produced  by  artificial  distinctions,  and  at  all  times  unwilling  to 
submit  to  it  or  pay  it  homage.  "Perfection  whispered  passing 
by,  Behold  the  Lass  o'  Ballochmyle  !"  and  Burns,  too  proud  to 
change  himself  into  a  lord  or  squire,  imagined  what  happiness 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  113 

might  have  been  his  if  all  those  charms  had  budded  and  blown 
within  a  cottage  like  "  a  rose-tree  in  full  bearing." 

*'  0,  had  she  been  a  country  maid. 

And  I  the  happy  country  swain. 
The'  sheltered  in  the  lowest  shed 

That  ever  rose  on  Scotlan4's  plain  ! 
Thro'  weary  winter's  wind  and  rain, 

With  joy,  with  rapture,  I  would  toil  ;• 
And  nightly  to  my  bosom  strain 

The  bonnie  lass  o'  Ballochmyle." 

He  speaks  less  passionately  of  the  charms  of  "  bonnie  Lesley 
as  she  gaed  owre  the  border,''  for  they  had  not  taken  him  by 
surprise  ;  he  was  prepared  to  behold  a  queen,  and  with  his  own 
hands  he  placed  upon  her  head  the  crown. 

**  To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 

And  love  but  her  for  ever ; 
For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is. 
And  never  made  anither. 

"  Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley, 

Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee : 
Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley, 

The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee." 

Nay,  evil  spirits  look  in  her  face  and  almost  become  good — 
while  angels  love  her  for  her  likeness  to  themselves,  and  happy 
she  must  be  on  earth  in  the  eye  of  heaven.  We  know  not  much 
about  the  "Lovely  Davis,;"  but  in  his  stanzas  she  is  the  very 
Sovereign  of  Nature, 

*'  Each  eye  it  cheers,  when  she  appears. 

Like  Phoebus  in  the  morning. 
When  past  the  shower,  and  every  flower, 

The  garden  is  adorning. 
As  the  wretch  looks  o'er  Siberia's  shore. 

When  winter-bound  the  wave  is  ; 
Sae  droops  our  heart  when  we  must  part 

Frae  charming,  lovely  Davis. 


9 


114!  THE  GENIUS  AND 


*'  Her  smile's  a  gift  frae  boon  the  lift 

That  makes  us  mair  than  princes, 
A  scepter'd  hand,  a  king's  command, 

Is  in  her  parting  glances. 
The  man  in  arms  'gainst  female  charms. 

Even  he  her  willing  slave  is  ; 
He  hugs  his  chain,  and  owns  the  reign 

Of  conquering,  lovely  Davis." 

The  loveliest  of  one  of  the  loveliest  families  in  Scotland  he 
changed  into  a  lowly  lassie,  aye  "  working  her  mammie's  work," 
and  her  lover  into  Young  Robie — "  who  gaed  wi '  Jeanie  to  the 
tryste,  and  danced  wi '  Jeanie  on  the  down."  In  imagination 
he  is  still  himself  the  happy  man — his  loves  are  short  and  rap- 
turous as  his  lyrics — and  while  his  constancy  may  be  complained 
of,  it  is  impossible  to  help  admiring  the  richness  of  his  genius 
that  keeps  for  ever  bringing  fresh  tribute  to  her  whom  he  hap- 
pens to  adore. 

"  Her  voice  is  the  voice  of  the  morning. 

That  wakes  through  the  green-spreading  grove 
When  Phcebus  peeps  over  the  mountains, 
On  music,  and  pleasure,  and  love." 

That  was  the  voice  of  one  altogether  lovely — a  lady  elegant  and 
accomplished — and  adorning  a  higher  condition  than  his  own ; 
but  though  finer  lines  were  never  written,  they  are  not  finer 
than  these  four  inspired  by  the  passing  by  of  a  young  woman, 
on  the  High  Street  of  Dumfries,  with  her  shoes  and  stockings  in 
her  hand,  and  her  petticoats  frugally  yet  liberally  kilted  to  her 
knee. 

"  Her  yellow  hair,  beyond  compare. 

Comes  trinkling  down  her  swan-white  neck, 
And  her  two  eyes;  like  stars  in  skies. 
Would  keep  a  sinking  ship  frae  wreck." 

It  may  be  thought  that  such  poetry  is  too  high  for  the  people 
— the  common  people — "  beyond  the  reaches  of  their  souls ;" 
but  Burns  knew  better — and  he  knew  that  he  who  would  be 
their  poet  must  put  forth  all  his  powers.     There  is  not  a  single 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  115 

thought,  feeling,  or  image  in  all  he  ever  wrote,  that  has  not  been 
comprehended  in  its  full  force  by  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands 
in  the  very  humblest  condition.  They  could  not  of  themselves 
have  conceived  them — nor  given  utterance  to  anything  resem- 
bling them  to  our  ears.  How  dull  of  apprehension  !  hov/  unlike 
gods  !  But  let  them  be  spoken  to,  and  they  hear.  Their  hearts 
delighted  with  a  strange  sweet  music  which  by  recognition  they 
understand,  are  not  satisfied  with  listening,  but  yearn  to  respond  ; 
and  the  whole  land  that  for  many  years  had  seemed,  but  was  not, 
silent,  in  a  few  months  is  overflowing  with  songs  that  had  issued 
from  highest  genius  it  is  true,  but  from  the  same  source  that  is 
daily  welling  out  its  waters  in  every  human  breast.  The  songs 
that  establish  themselves  among  a  people  must  indeed  be  simple 
— but  the  simplest  feelings  are  the  deepest,  and  once  that  they 
have  received  adequate  expression,  then  they  die  not — but  live 
for  ever. 

Many  of  his  Love-songs  are,  as  they  ought  to  be,  untinged 
with  earthly  desire,  and  some  of  these  are  about  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  any — as 

*'  Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie  ? 

When  sorrow  wrings  thy  gentle  heart, 
Wilt  thou  let  me  cheer  thee  ! 

By  the  treasure  of  my  soul, 
That's  the  love  I  bear  thee  ! 

I  swear  and  vow,  that  only  thou 
Shalt  ever  be  my  dearie. 

"  Lassie,  say  thou  lo'es  me ; 

Or  if  thou  wilt  na  be  my  ain, 
Say  na  thou'lt  refuse  me  : 

Let  me,  lassie,  quickly  die. 
Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  me. 
Lassie,  let  me  quickly  die. 
Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  me." 

Nothing  can  be  more  exquisitely  tender — passionless  from  the 
excess  of  passion — pure  from  very  despair — love  yet  hopes  for 
love's  confession,  though  it  feels  it  can  be  but  a  word  of  pity  to 
swe€ten  death. 

In  the  most  exquisite  of  his  Songs,  he  connects  and  blends  the 


116  THE  GENIUS  AND 


tenderest  and  most  passionate  emotions  with  all  appearances — 
animate  and  inanimate  ;  in  them  all — and  in  some  by  a  single 
touch — we  are  made  to  feel  that  we  are  in  the  midst  of  nature. 
A  bird  glints  by,  and  we  know  we  are  in  the  woods — a  primrose 
grows  up,  and  we  are  among  the  braes — the  mere  name  of  a 
stream  brings  its  banks  before  us — or  two  or  three  words  leave 
us  our  own  choice  of  many  waters. 

"  Far  dearer  to  me  the  lone  glen  of  green  bracken, 
Wi'  the  burn  stealing  under  the  lang  yellow  broom.'* 

It  has  been  thought  that  the  eyes  of  "  the  laboring  poor  "  are 
not  very  sensible — nay,  that  they  are  insensible  to  scenery — and 
that  the  pleasures  thence  derived  are  confined  to  persons  of  cul- 
tivated taste.  True,  that  the  country  girl,  as  she  "  lifts  her 
leglin,  and  hies  her  away,"  is  thinking  more  of  her  lover's  face 
and  figure — whom  she  hopes  to  meet  in  the  evening — than  of 
the  trysting  tree,  or  of  the  holm  where  the  grey  hawthorn  has 
been  standing  for  hundreds  of  years.  Yet  she  knows  right  well 
that  they  are  beautiful ;  and  she  feels  their  beauty  in  the  old 
song  she  is  singing  to  herself,  that  at  dead  of  winter  recalls  the 
spring  time  and  all  the  loveliness  of  the  season  of  leaves.  The 
people  know  little  about  painting — how  should  they  ?  for  unac- 
quainted with  the  laws  of  perspective,  they  cannot  see  the  land- 
scape-picture on  which  instructed  eyes  gaze  till  the  imagination 
beholds  a  paradise.  But  the  landscapes  themselves  they  do  see 
— and  they  love  to  look  on  them.  The  ploughman  does  so,  as 
he  "homeward  plods  his  weary  way;"  the  reaper  as  he  looks 
at  what  Burns  calls  his  own  light — "  the  reaper's  nightly  beam, 
mild  chequering  through  the  trees."  If  it  were  not  so,  why 
should  they  call  it  "  Bonnie  Scotland  " — why  should  they  call 
him  "  Sweet  Robbie  Burns  ?  " 

In  his  Songs  they  think  of  the  flowers  as  alive,  and  with 
hearts :  "  How  blest  the  flowers  that  round  thee  bloom !"  In 
his  Songs,  the  birds  they  hear  singing  in  common  hours  with 
common  pleasure,  or  give  them  not  a  thought,  without  losing  their 
own  nature  partake  of  theirs,  and  shun,  share,  or  mock  human 
passion.     He  is  at  once  the  most  accurate  and  the  most  poetical 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  117 

of  ornithologists.  By  a  felicitous  epithet  he  characterizes  each 
tribe  according  to  song,  plumage,  habits,  or  haunts;  often  intro- 
duces them  for  the  sake  of  their  own  happy  selves ;  oftener  as 
responsive  to  ours,  in  the  expression  of  their  own  joys  and  griefs. 

"  Oh,  stay,  sweet  warbling  wood-lark,  stay. 
Nor  quit  for  me  the  trembling  spray ; 
A  hapless  lover  courts  thy  lay — 
Thy  soothing,  fond  complaining. 

"  Again,  again,  that  tender  part, 
That  I  may  catch  thy  melting  art ; 
For  surely  that  wad  touch  her  heart, 
Wha  kills  me  wi'  disdaining. 

"  Say,  was  thy  little  mate  unkind, 
And  heard  thee  as  the  careless  wind  ? 
Oh,  nocht  but  love  and  sorrow  join'd, 
Sic  notes  ^'  love  could  wauken. 

"  Thou  tells  o'  never  ending  care  : 
0'  speechless  grief,  and  dark  despair  ; 
For  pity's  sake,  sweet  bird,  nae  mair. 
Or  my  poor  heart  is  broken  !" 

Who  was  Jenny  Cruikshank  ?  Only  child  "  of  my  worthy 
friend,  Mr.  William  Cruikshank  of  the  High  School,  Edin- 
burgh." Where  did  she  live  1  On  a  floor  at  the  top  of  a  com- 
mon stair,  now  marked  No.  30,  in  James'  Square.  Burns  lived 
for  some  time  with  her  father — his  room  being  one  which  has  a 
window  looking  out  from  the  gable  of  the  house  upon  the  green 
behind  the  Register  OfRce.  There  was  little  on  that  green  to 
look  at — perhaps  "a  washing"  laid  out  to  dry.  But  the  poet 
saw  a  vision — and  many  a  maiden  now  often  sees  it  too — whose 
face  may  be  of  the  coarsest,  and  her  hair  not  of  the  finest — but 
who  in  spite  of  all  that,  strange  to  say,  has  an  imagination  and 
a  heart. 

"  A  rose-bud  by  my  early  walk 
Adown  a  corn-enclosed  bawk, 
Sae  gently  bent  its  thorny  stalk 

All  on  a  dewy  morning ; 


118  THE  GENIUS  AND 


Ere  twice  the  shades  o'  dawn  are  fled, 
In  a'  its  crimson  glory  spread  ; 
And  drooping  rich  the  dewy  head, 

It  scents  the  early  morning. 

«  Within  the  bush,  her  covert  nest 
A  little  linnet  fondly  prest ; 
The  dew  sat  chilly  on  her  breast 

Sae  early  in  the  morning. 
The  morn  shall  see  her  tender  brood 
The  pride,  the  pleasure  o'  the  Wood, 
Amang  the  fresh  green  leaves  bedew'd. 

Awake  the  early  morning. 

"  So  thou,  dear  bird,  young  Jeany  fair  ! 
On  trembling  string,  or  vocal  air, 
Shall  sweetly  pay  the  tender  care, 

That  tends  thy  early  morning. 
So  thou,  sweet  rosebud,  young  and  gay, 
Shalt  beauteous  blaze  upon  the  day. 
And  bless  the  parent's  evening  ray. 

That  walch'd  thy  early  morning.*' 

Indeed,  in  all  his  poetry,  what  an  overflowing  of  tenderness, 
pity,  and  afl^ection  towards  all  living  creatures  that  inhabit  the 
earth,  the  water,  and  the  air !  Of  all  men  that  ever  lived. 
Burns  was  the  least  of  a  sentimentalist ;  he  was  your  true  Man 
of  Feeling.  He  did  not  preach  to  Christian  people  the  duty  of 
humanity  to  animals;  he  spoke  of  them  in  winning  words  warm 
from  a  manliest  breast,  as  his  fellow-creatures,  and  made  us  feel 
what  we  ov/e.  What  child  could  well  be  cruel  to  a  helpless 
animal  who  had  read  "  The  Death  and  Dying  Words  of  Poor 
Maillie"— or  "The  Twa  Dogs ?"  "  The  Auld  Farmer's  New- 
year's-day  Address  to  his  Auld  Mare  Maggie"  has — we  know — 
humanized  the  heart  of  a  Gilmerton  carter.  "  Not  a  mouse 
stirring,"  are  gentle  words  at  that  hour  from  Shakspeare — when 
thinking  of  the  ghost  of  a  king ;  and  he  would  have  loved  bro- 
ther Burns  for  saying — "  What  makes  thee  startle,  at  me  thy 
poor  earth-born  companion  and  fellow  mortalV^  Safe-housed  at 
fall  of  a  stormy  winter  night,  of  whom  does  the  poet  think,  along 
with  the  unfortunate,  the  erring,  and  the  guilty  of  his  own  race  ? 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  119 

"  List'ning  the  doors  an'  winnocks  rattle, 
I  thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle, 
Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 

0'  winter  war. 
An'  thro'  the  drift,  deep-lairing  sprattle, 

Beneath  a  scar. 

*'  Ilk  happing  bird,  wee,  helpless  thing, 
That  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o'  thee  ? 
Whare  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  chittering  wing, 
An'  close  thy  e'e  ?" 

The  poet  loved  the  sportsman  ;  but  lamenting  in  fancy  "  Tom 
Samson's  Death" — he  could  not  help  thinking,  that  "on  his 
mouldering  breast,  some  spitefu'  muirfowl  bigs  her  nest."  When 
at  Kirkoswald  studying  trigonometry,  plane  and  spherical,  he 
sometimes  associated  with  smugglers,  but  never  with  poachers. 
You  cannot  figure  to  yourself  young  Robert  Burns  stealing 
stoopingly  along  under  cover  of  a  hedge,  with  a  long  gun  and  a 
lurcher,  to  get  a  shot  at  a  hare  sitting,  and  perhaps  washing  her 
face  with  her  paws.  No  tramper  ever  "coft  fur"  at  Mossgiel 
or  EUisland.  He  could  have  joined,  had  he  liked,  in  the  pas- 
sionate ardor  of  the  rod  and  the  gun  the  net  and  the  leister ;  but 
he  liked  rather  to  tnink  of  all  those  creatures  alive  and  well, 
"in  their  native  element."  In  his  love-song  to  "the  charming 
filette  who  overset  his  trigonometry,"  and  incapacitated  him  for 
the  taking  of  the  sun's  altitude,  he  says  to  her,  on  proposing  to 
take  a  walk — 

"  Now  westlin  winds,  and  slaught'ring  guns. 
Bring  autumn's  pleasant  weather  ; 
The  moorcock  springs,  on  whirring  wings, 
Amang  the  blooming  heather. 

*'  The  partridge  loves  the  fruitful  fells ; 
The  plover  loves  the  mountains ; 
The  woodcock  haunts  the  lonely  dells ; 

The  soaring  hern  the  fountains  : 
Thro'  lofty  groves  the  cushat  roves, 
The  path  of  man  to  shun  it ; 


120  THE  GENIUS  AND 


The  hazel  bush  o'erhangs  the  thrush, 
The  spreading  thorn  the  linnet 

"  Thus  ev'ry  kind  their  pleasure  find 
The  savage  and  the  tender ; 
*  Some  social  join,  and  leagues  combine ; 

Some  solitary  wander : 
Avaunt,  away  !  the  cruel  sway. 

Tyrannic  man's  dominion ; 
The  sportsman's  joy,  the  murd'ring  cry. 
The  flutt'ring,  gory  pinion  !" 

Bruar  Water,  in  his  Humble  Petition  to  the  Noble  Duke  of 
Athole,  prays  that  his  banks  may  be  made  sylvan,  that  shepherd, 
lover,  and  bard  may  enjoy  the  shades ;  but  chiefly  for  sake  of 
the  inferior  creatures. 

"  Delighted  doubly  then,  my  Lord, 
You'll  wander  on  my  banks. 
And  listen  many  a  gratefu'  bird 
Return  you  tunefu'  thanks." 

The  sober  laverock — the  gowdspink  gay — the  strong  blackbird — 
the  clear  lintwhite — the  mavis  mild  and  mellow — they  will  all 
sing  *•  Grod  bless  the  Duke."  And  one  mute  creature  will  be  more 
thankful  than  all  the  rest — "  coward  maukin  sleep  secure,  low  in 
her  grassy  form."  You  know  that  he  threatened  to  throw  Jem 
Thomson,  a  farmer's  son  near  Ellisland,  into  the  Nith,  for  shoot- 
ing at  a  hare — and  in  several  of  his  morning  landscapes  a  hare 
is  hirpling  by.  What  human  and  poetical  sympathy  is  there  in 
his  address  to  the  startled  wild  fowl  on  Loch  Turit !  He  speaks 
of  "  parent,  filial,  kindred  ties ;"  and  in  the  closing  lines  who 
does  not  feel  that  it  is  Bums  that  speaks  1 

"  Or,  if  man's  superior  might. 
Dare  invade  your  native  right. 
On  the  lofty  ether  borne 
Man  with  all  his  powers  you  scorn ; 
Swiftly  seek,  on  clanging  wings. 
Other  lakes  and  other  springs ; 
And  the  foe  you  cannot  brave. 
Scorn,  at  least,  to  be  his  slave." 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  121 

Whatever  be  his  mood,  grave  or  gladsome,  mirthful  or  melan- 
choly — or  when  sorrow  smiles  back  to  joy,  or  care  joins  hands 
with  folly— he  has  always  a  thought  to  give  to  them  who  many 
think  have  no  thought,  but  who  all  seemed  to  him,  from  highest 
to  lowest  in  that  scale  of  being,  to  possess  each  its  appropriate 
degree  of  intelligence  and  love.  In  the  "  Sonnet  written  on  his 
birth-day,  January  25th,  1793,  on  hearing  a  thrush  sing  in  a 
morning-walk,"  it  is  truly  affecting  to  hear  how  he  connects,  on 
the  sudden,  his  own  condition  with  all  its  cares  and  anxieties, 
with''that  of  the  cheerful  bird  upon  the  leafless  bough — 

**  Yet  come,  thou  child  of  poverty  and  care, 
The  mite  high  Heaven  bestows,  that  mite  with  thee  I'll  share." 

We  had  intended  to  speak  only  of  his  Songs ;  and  to  them  we 
return  for  a  few  minutes  more,  asking  you  to  notice  how  cheer- 
ing such  of  them  as  deal  gladsomely  with  the  concerns  of  this 
world  must  be  to  the  hearts  of  them  who  of  their  own  accord  sing 
them  to  themselves,  at  easier  work,  or  intervals  of  labor,  or  at 
gloaming  when  the  day's  darg  is  done.  All  partings  are  not  sad — 
most  are  the  reverse ;  lovers  do  not  fear  that  they  shall  surely 
die  the  day  after  they  have  kissed  farewell ;  on  the  contrary  they 
trust,  with  the  blessing  of  God,  to  be  married  at  the  term. 

"  Jockey's  ta'en  the  parting  kiss, 

O'er  the  mountains  he  is  gane ; 
*  And  with  him  is  a'  my  bliss. 

Naught  but  griefs  with  me  remain. 

"  Spare  my  luve,  ye  winds  that  blaw, 
Plashy  sleets  and  beating  rain  ! 
Spare  my  luve,  thou  feathery  snaw. 
Drifting  o'er  the  frozen  plain. 

"  When  the  shades  of  evening  creep 
O'er  the  day's  fair,  gladsome  e'e, 
Sound  and  safely  may  he  sleep. 
Sweetly  blythe  his  waukening  be  5 

"  He  will  think  on  her  he  loves, 
Fondly  he'll  repeat  her  name  ; 


122  THE  GENIUS  AND 


For  where'er  he  distant  roves, 
Jockejy's  heart  is  still  at  hame." 

There  is  no  great  matter  or  merit,  some  one  may  say,  in  such 
lines  as  these — nor  is  there  ;  but  they  express  sweetly  enough 
some  natural  sentiments,  and  what  more  would  you  have  in  a 
song  ?  You  have  had  far  more  in  some  songs  to  which  we  have 
given  the  go-by ;  but  we  are  speaking  now  of  the  class  of  the 
simply  pleasant ;  and  on  us  their  effect  is  like  that  of  a  gentle 
light  falling  on  a  pensive  place,  when  there  are  no  absolute  clouds 
in  the  sky,  and  no  sun  visible  either,  but  when  that  soft  effusion, 
we  know  not  whence,  makes  the  whole  day  that  had  been  some- 
what sad,  serene,  and  reminds  us  that  ft  is  summer.  Believing 
you  feel  as  we  do,  we  do  not  fear  to  displease  you  by  quoting 
"  The  Tither  Morn." 

"  The  tither  morn,  when  I  forlorn,  ^ 

Aneath  an  aik  sat  moaning, 
I  didna  trow,  I'd  see  my  jo, 

Beside  me,  gain  the  gloaming. 
But  he  sae  trig,  lap  o'er  the  rig, 
,  And  dautingly  did  cheer  me. 

When  I,  what  reck,  did  least  expec'. 
To  see  my  lad  so  near  me. 

"  His  bonnet  he,  a  thought  ajee. 

Cocked  sprush  when  first  he  clasp'd  me ; 
And  I,  I  wat,  wi'  fairness  grat. 

While  in  his  grips  he  pressed  me. 
Deil  take  the  war  !  I  late  and  air, 

Hae  wished  syne  Jock  departed ; 
But  now  as  glad  I'm  wi'  my  lad. 

As  short  syne  broken-hearted. 

"  I'm  aft  at  e'en  wi'  dancing  keen, 

When  a'  were  blithe  and  merry, 
I  car'd  na  by,  sae  sad  was  I, 

In  absence  o'  my  dearie. 
But  praise  be  blest,  my  mind's  at  rest, 

I'm  happy  wi'  my  Johnny : 
At  kirk  and  fair,  I'll  aye  be  there. 

And  be  as  canty's  ony." 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  123 

We  believe  that  the  most  beautiful  of  his  Songs  are  dearest  to 
the  people,  and  these  are  the  passionate  and  the  pathetic ;  but 
there  are  some  connected  in  one  way  or  other  with  the  tender 
passion,  great  favorites  too,  from  the  light  and  lively,  up  to  the 
humorous  and  comic — yet  among  the  broadest  of  that  class  there 
is  seldom  any  coarseness — indecency  never — vulgar  you  may 
call  some  of  them,  if  you  please  ;  they  were  not  intended  to  be 
genteel.  Flirts  and  coquettes  of  both  sexes  are  of  every  rank  ; 
in  humble  life  the  saucy  and  scornful  toss  their  heads  full  high, 
or  "go  by  like  stoure;"  "for  sake  o'  gowd  she  left  me"  is  a 
complaint  heard  in  all  circles  ;  "  although  the  night  be  neer  sae 
wet,  and  he  be  neer  sae  weary  O,"  a  gentleman  of  a  certain  age 
will  make  himself  ridiculous  by  dropping  on  the  knees  of  his 
corduroy  breeches ;  Auntie  would  fain  become  a  mother,  and  in 
order  thereunto  a  wife,  and  waylays  a  hobbletehoy ;  daughters 
the  most  filial  think  nothing  of  breaking  their  mothers'  hearts  as 
their  grandmothers'  were  broken  before  them  ;  innocents,  with 
no  other  teaching  but  that  of  nature,  in  the  conduct  of  intrigues 
in  which  verily  there  is  neither  shame  nor  sorrow,  become  system- 
atic and  consummate  hypocrites,  not  worthy  to  live — single; 
despairing  swains  are  saved  from  suicide  by  peals  of  laughter 
from  those  for  whom  they  fain  would  die,  and  so  get  noosed ; — 
and  surely  here  is  a  field — indicated  and  no  more — wide  enough 
for  the  Scottish  Comic  Muse,  and  would  you  know  how  produc- 
tive to  the  hand  of  genius  you  have  but  to  read  Burns. 

In  one  of  his  letters  he  says,  "  If  I  could,  and  I  believe  I  do 
it  as  far  as  I  can,  I  would  wipe  away  all  tears  from  all  eyes." 
His  nature  was  indeed  humane  ;  and  the  tendernesses  and  kind- 
linesses apparent  in  every  page  of  his  poetry,  and  most  of  all  in 
his  Songs — cannot  but  have  a  humanizing  influence  on  all  those 
classes  exposed  by  the  necessities  of  their  condition  to  many 
causes  for  ever  at  work  to  harden  or  shut  up  the  heart.  Bums 
does  not  keep  continually  holding  up  to  them  the  evils  of  their 
lot,  continually  calling  on  them  to  endure  or  to  redress  ',  but 
while  he  stands  up  for  his  Order,  its  virtues,  and  its  rights,  and 
has  bolts  to  hurl  at  the  oppressor,  his  delight  is  to  inspire  con- 
tentment. In  that  solemn—"  Dirge," — a  spiritual  being,  suddenly 
spied  in  the  gloom,  seems  an  Apparition,  made  sage  by  sufferings 


124  THE  GENIUS  AND 


in  the  flesh,  sent  to  instruct  us  and  all  who  breathe  that  "  Man 
was  made  to  mourn." 

"  Many  and  sharp  the  numerous  ills 

Inwoven  with  our  frame  ! 
More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves, 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame  ! 
And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man, 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  ! 

"  See  yonder  poor,  o'er-labor'd  wight, 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile. 
Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth 

To  give  him  leave  to  toil ; 
And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 

The  poor  petition  spurn. 
Unmindful,  tho'  a  weeping  wife 

And  helpless  offspring  mourn." 

But  we  shall  suppose  that  "  brother  of  the  earth  "  rotten,  and 
forgotten  by  the  "  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride,"  who 
work  without  leave  from  worms.  At  his  work  we  think  we  hear 
a  stalwart  tiller  of  the  soil  humming  what  must  be  a  verse  of 
Burns. 

"  Is  there  for  honest  poverty. 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that  ? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by. 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that ! 
What  tho'  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hoddin  grey,  and  a'  that ; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 

A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 

*'  Then  let  us  pray,  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that. 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth. 

May  bear  the  gi-ee,  and  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

It's  coming  yet  for  a'  that, 
That  man  to  man,  the  world  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that." 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  125 


A  spirit  of  Independence  reigned  alike  in  the  Genius  and  the 
Character  of  Burns.  And  what  is  it  but  a  strong  sense  of  what 
is  due  to  Worth,  apart  altogether  from  the  distinctions  of  society 
— the  vindication  of  that  Worth  being  what  he  felt  to  be  the  nnost 
honored  call  upon  himself  in  life  ?  That  sense  once  violated  is 
destroyed,  ^d  therefore  he  guarded  it  as  a  sacred  thing — only 
less  sacred  than  Conscience.  Yet  it  belongs  to  Conscience, 
and  is  the  prerogative  of  Man  as  Man.  Sometinles  it  may  seem 
as  if  he  watched  it  with  jealousy,  and  in  jealousy  there  is  always 
weakness,  because  there  is  fear.  But  it  was  not  so  ;  he  felt  as- 
sured that  his  footing  was  firm  and  that  his  back  was  on  a  rock. 
No  blast  could  blow,  no  air  could  beguile  him  from  the  position 
he  had  taken  up  with  his  whole  soul  in  "  its  pride  of  place." 
His  words  were  justified  by  his  actions,  and  his  actions  truly 
told  his  thoughts  ;  his  were  a  bold  heart,  a  bold  hand,  and  a  bold 
tongue,  for  in  the  nobility  of  his  nature  he  knew  that  though  born 
and  bred  in  a  hovel,  he  was  the  equal  of  the  highest  in  the  land  ;  as 
he  yas — and  no  more — of  the  lowest,  so  that  they  too  were  men. 
For  hear  him  speak — "  What  signify  the  silly,  idle  gew-gaws 
of  wealth,  or  the  ideal  trumpery  of  greatness  !  When  fellow- 
partakers  (if  the  same  nature  fear  the  same  God,  have  the  same 
benevolence  of  heart,  the  same  nobleness  of  soul,  the  same  de- 
testation at  everything  dishonest,  and  the  same  scorn  at  every- 
thing unworthy — if  they  are  not  in  the  dependence  of  absolute 
beggary,  in  the  name  of  common  sense  are  they  not  equals  ? 
And  if  the  bias,  the  instinctive  bias  of  their  souls  were  the  same 
way,  why  may  they  not  be  friends  ?  He  was  indeed  privileged 
to  write  that  "  Inscription  for  an  Altar  to  Independence." 

"  Thou  of  an  independent  mind, 

With  soul  resolved,  with  soul  resigned  ; 

Prepared  Power's  proudest  frown  to  brave, 

Who  wilt  not  be,  nor  have  a  slave  ; 

Virtue  alone  who  dost  revere, 

Thy  own  reproach  alone  dost  fear, 

Approach  this  shrine,  and  worship  here." 

Scotland's  adventurous  sons  are  now  as  proud  of  this  moral  fea- 
ture of  his  poetry  as  of  all  the  pictures  it  contains  of  their  native 


]2d  the   genius  and 


country.  Bound  up  in  one  volume  it  is  the  Manual  of  Inde- 
pendence. Were  they  not  possessed  of  the  same  spirit,  they 
would  be  ashamed  to  open  it ;  but  what  they  wear  they  win, 
what  they  eat  they  earn,  and  if  frugal  they  be — and  that  is  the 
right  word — it  is  that  on  their  return  they  may  build^  house  on 
the  site  of  their  father's  hut,  and  proud  to  remember  mat  he  was 
poor,  live  so  as  to  deserve  the  blessings  of  the  children  of  them 
who  walked  with  him  to  daily  labor  on  what  was  then  no  better 
than  a  wilderness,  but  has  now  been  made  to  blossom  like  the 
rose.  Ebenezer  Elliot  is  no  flatterer — and  he  said  to  a  hundred 
and  twenty  Scotsmen  in  Sheffield  met  to  celebrate  the  birth-day 
of  Burns — 

"  Stern  Mother  of  the  deathless  dead  ! 

Where  stands  a  Scot,  a  freeman  stands ; 
Self-stayed,  if  poor — self-clothed — self-fed  ; 
Mind-mighty  in  all  lands. 

"  No  wicked  plunder  need  thy  sons,  ^ 

To  save  the  wretch  whom  mercy  spurns, 
No  classic  lore  thy  little  ones. 
Who  find  a  Bard  in  Burns. 

"  Their  path  tho'  dark,  they  may  not  miss ; 
Secure  they  tread  on  danger's  brink ; 
They  say  '  this  shall  be  '  and  it  is  : 
For  ere  they  act,  they  think." 

There  are,  it  is  true,  some  passages  in  his  poetry,  and  more 
in  his  letters,  in  which  this  Spirit  of  Independence  partakes  too 
much  of  pride,  and  expresses  itself  in  anger  and  scorn.  These, 
however,  were  but  passing  moods,  and  he  did  not  love  to  cherish 
them  ;  no  great  blame  had  they  been  more  frequent  and  perma- 
nent— for  his  noble  nature  was  exposed  to  many  causes  of  such 
irritation,  but  it  triumphed  over  them  all.  A  few  indignant 
flashes  broke  out  against  the  littleness  of  the  great ;  but  nothing 
so  paltry  as  personal  pique  inspired  him  with  feelings  of  hostility 
towards  the  highest  orders.  His  was  an  imagination  that  clothed 
high  rank  with  that  dignity  which  some  of  the  degenerate  de- 
scendants of  old  houses  had  forgotten  ;  and  whenever  true 
noblemen  "  reverenced  the  lyre  "  and  grasped  the  hand  of  the 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  127 

peasant  who  had  received  it  from  nature  as  his  patrimony,  Burns 
felt  it  to  be  nowise  inconsistent  with  the  stubbornest  indepen- 
dence that  ever  supported  a  son  of  the  soil  in  his  struggles  with 
necessity,  reverently  to  doif  his  bonnet,  and  bow  his  head  in 
their  presence  with  proud  humility.  Jeffrey  did  himself  honor 
by  acknowledging  that  he  had  been  at  first  misled  by  occasional 
splenetic  passages,  in  his  estimation  of  Burns's  character,  and  by 
afterwards  joining,  in  eloquent  terms,  in  the  praise  bestowed  by 
other  kindred  spirits  on  the  dignity  of  its  independence.  "  It  is 
observed,"  says  Campbell  with  his  usual  felicity,  "  that  he  boasts 
too  much  of  his  independence  ;  but  in  reality  this  boast  is  neither 
frequent  nor  obtrusive  ;  and  it  is  in  itself  the  expression  of  a 
noble  and  laudable  feeling.  So  far  from  calling  up  disagreeable 
recollections  of  rusticity,  his  sentiments  triumph,  by  their  natu- 
ral energy,  over  those  false  and  artificial  distinctions  which  the 
mind  is  but  too  apt  to  form  in  allotting  its  sympathies  to  the  sen- 
sibilities of  the  rich  and  poor.  He  carries  us  into  the  humble 
scenes  of  life,  not  to  make  us  dole  out  our  tribute  of  charitable 
compassion  to  paupers  and  cottagers,  but  to  make  us  feel  with 
them  on  equal  terms,  to  make  us  enter  into  their  passions  and 
interests,  and  share  our  hearts  with  them  as  brothers  and  sisters 
of  the  human  species." 

In  nothing  else  is  the  sincerity  of  his  soul  more  apparent  than  ' 
in  his  Friendship.  All  who  had  ever  been  kind  to  him  he  loved 
till  the  last.  It  mattered  not  to  him  what  was  their  rank  or  con- 
dition— he  returned,  and  more  than  returned  their  affection — he 
was,  with  regard  to  such  ties,  indeed  of  the  family  of  the  faith- 
ful. The  consciousness  of  his  infinite  superiority  to  the  common 
race  of  men,  and  of  his  own  fame  and  glory  as  a  Poet,  never  for 
a  moment  made  him  forget  the  humble  companions  of  his  obscure 
life,  or  regard  with  a  haughty  eye  any  face  that  had  ever  worn 
towards  him  an  expression  of  benevolence.  The  Smiths,  the 
Muirs,  the  Browns,  and  the  Parkers,  were  to  him  as  the  Aikens, 
the  Ballantynes,  the  Hamiltons,  the  Cunninghams,  and  the  Ains- 
lies — these  as  the  Stewarts,  the  Gregorys,  the  Blairs  and  the 
Mackenzies — these  again  as  the  Grahams  and  the  Erskines — 
and  these  as  the  Daers,  the  Glencairns,  and  the  other  men  of 
rank  who  were  kind  to  him — all  were  his  friends — his  benefac- 


128  THE  GENIUS  AND 


tors.  His  heart  expanded  towards  them  all,  and  throbbed  with 
gratitude.  His  eldest  son — and  he  has  much  of  his  father's  in- 
tellectual power — bears  his  own  Christian  name — the  others  are 
James  Glencairn,  and  William  Nicol — so  called  respectively- 
after  a  nobleman  to  whom  he  thought  he  owed  all — and  a  school- 
master to  whom  he  owed  nothing — yet  equally  entitled  to  bestow 
— or  receive  that  honor. 

There  is  a  beautiful  passage  in  his  Second  Common  Place 
Book,  showing  how  deeply  he  felt,  and  how  truly  he  valued,  the 
patronage  which  the  worthy  alone  can  bestow.  "  What  pleasure 
is  in  the  power  of  the  fortunate  and  happy,  by  their  notice  and 
patronage,  to  brighten  the  countenance  and  glad  the  heart  of 
depressed  worth  !  I  am  not  so  angry  with  mankind  for  their 
deaf  economy  of  the  purse.  The  goods  of  this  world  cannot  be 
divided  without  being  lessened  ;  but  why  be  a  niggard  of  that 
which  bestows  bliss  on  a  fellow  creature,  yet  takes  nothing  from 
our  own  means  of  enjoyment?  Why  wrap  ourselves  in  the 
cloak  of  our  own  better  fortune,  and  turn  away  our  eyes  lest 
the  wants  and  cares  of  our  brother  mortals  should  disturb  the 
selfish  apathy  of  our  souls  V  What  was  the  amount  of  all  the 
kindness  shown  him  by  the  Earl  of  Glencairn  ?  That  excellent 
nobleman  at  once  saw  that  he  was  a  great  genius, — gave  him 
the  hand  of  friendship — and  in  conjunction  with  Sir  John  White- 
ford  got  the  members  of  the  Caledonian  Hunt  to  subscribe  for 
guinea  instead  of  six  shilling  copies  of  his  volume.  That  was 
all — and  it  was  well.  For  that  Burns  was  as  grateful  as  for 
the  preservation  of  life. 

"  The  bridegroom  may  forget  the  bride 
Was  made  his  wedded  wife  yestreen ; 
The  monarch  may  forget  the  crown 

That  on  his  head  an  hour  hath  been ; 
The  mother  may  forget  the  child 

That  smiles  sae  sweetly  on  her  knee ; 
'  But  I'll  remember  thee,  Glencairn, 

And  a'  that  thou  hast  done  for  me." 

He  went  into  mourning  on  the  death  of  his  benefactor,  and 
desired  to  know  where  he  was  to  be  buried,  that  he  might  attend 
the  funeral,  and  drop  a  tear  into  his  grave. 

The  "  Lament  for  Glencairn  "  is  one  of  the  finest  of  Ele- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  129 

gies.  We  cannot  agree  with  those  critics — some  of  them  of 
deserved  reputation — who  have  objected  to  the  form  in  which  the 
poet  chose  to  give  expression  to  his  grief.  Imagination,  touched 
by  human  sorrow,  loves  to  idealize ;  because  thereby  it  purifies, 
elevates,  and  ennobles  realities,  without  impairing  the  pathos 
belonging  to  them  in  nature.  Many  great  poets — nor  do  we  fear 
now  to  mention  Milton  among  the  number — have  in  such  strains 
celebrated  the  beloved  dead.  They  have  gone  out,  along  with 
the  object  of  their  desire,  from  the  real  living  world  in  which 
they  had  been  united,  and  shadowed  forth  in  imagery  that  bears 
a  high  similitude  to  it,  all  that  was  most  spiritual  in  the  com- 
munion now  broken  in  upon  by  the  mystery  of  death.  So  it  is 
in  the  Lycidas — and  so  it  is  in  this  "  Lament."  Burns  imagines 
an  aged  Bard  giving  vent  to  his  sorrow  for  his  noble  master's 
untimely  death,  among  the  "  fading  yellow  woods,  that  wav'd 
o'er  Lugar's  winding  stream."  That  name  at  once  awakens  in 
us  the  thought  of  his  own  dawning  genius ;  and  though  his  head 
was  yet  dark  as  the  raven's  wing,  and  "  the  locks  were  bleached 
white  with  time  "  of  the  Apparition  evoked  with  his  wailing  harp 
among  the  "  winds  lamenting  thro'  the  caves,"  yet  we  feel  on 
the  instant  that  the  imaginary  mourner  is  one  and  the  same 
with  the  real — that  the  old  and  the  young  are  inspired  with  the 
same  passion,  and  have  but  one  heart.  We  are  taken  out  of 
the  present  time,  and  placed  in  one  far  remote — yet  by  such  re- 
moval the  personality  of  the  poet,  so  far  from  being  weakened, 
is  enveloped  in  a  melancholy  light  that  shows  it  more'endear- 
ingly  to  our  eyes — the  harp  of  other  years  sounds  with  ^he  sor- 
row that  never  dies — the  words  heard  are  the  everlasting  lan- 
guage of  affection — and  is  ifot  the  object  of  such  lamentation 
aggrandized  by  thus  being  lifted  into  the  domain  of  poetry  ? 

"  I've  seen  sae  mony  changefu'  years, 

On  earth  I  am  a  stranger  grown ; 
I  wander  in  the  ways  of  men. 

Alike  unknowing  and  unknown ; 
Unheard,  unpitied,  unreliev'd : 

I  bear  alane  my  lade  o'  care. 
For  silent,  low,  on  beds  of  dust, 

Lie  a'  that  would  my  sorrows  share. 

10 


130  THE  GENIUS  AND 


*'  And  last  (the  sum  of  a'  my  griefs  !) 
My  noble  master  lies  in  clay ; 
The  Flow'r  amajjg  our  Barons  bold. 
His  country's  pride,  his  country's  stay." 

We  go  along  with  such  a  mourner  in  his  exaltation  of  the  cha- 
racter of  the  mourned — great  must  have  been  the  goodness  to 
generate  such  gratitude — that  which  would  have  been  felt  to 
be  exaggeration,  if  expressed  in  a  form  not  thus  imaginative,  is 
here  brought  within  our  unquestioning  sympathy — and  we  are 
prepared  to  return  to  the  event  in  its  reality,  with  undiminished 
fervor,  when  Burns  re-appears  in  his  own  character  without 
any  disguise,  and  exclaims — 

'*  Awake  thy  last  sad  voice,  my  harp, 

The  voice  of  wo  and  wild  despair; 
Awake,  resound  thy  latest  lay. 

Then  sleep  in  silence  evermair  ! 
And  thou,  my  last,  best,  only  friend, 

That  fillest  an  untimely  tomb. 
Accept  this  tribute  from  the  bard 

Thou  brought  from  fortune's  mirkest  gloom. 

"  In  poverty's  low,  barren  vale. 

Thick  mists,  obscure,  involv'd  me  round ; 
Though  oft  I  turned  the  wistful  eye, 

Nae  ray  of  fame  was  to  be  found  : 
Thou  found'st  me,  like  the  morning  sun. 

That  melts  the  fogs  in  limpid  air, 
The  friendless  bard  and  rustic  song 

Became  alike  thy  fostering  care." 

The  Elegy  on  "  Captain  Matthew  Henderson '' — of  whom 
little  or  nothing  is  now  known — is  a  wonderfully  fine  flight  o-f 
imagination,  but  it  wants,  we  think,  the  deep  feeling  of  the  "  La- 
ment."  It  may  be  called  a  Rapture.  Burns  says,  "  It  is  a  tri- 
bute to  a  man  I  loved  much  ;"  and  in  "  The  Epitaph  "  which 
follows  it,  he  draws  his  character — and  a  noble  one  it  is — in 
many  points  resembling  his  own.  With  the  exception  of  the 
opening  and  concluding  stanzas,  the  Elegy  consists  entirely  of  a 
supplication  to  Nature  to  join  with  him  in  lamenting  the  death 
of  the  "  ae  best  fellow  e'er  was  born  j"  and  though  to  our  ears 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  131 

there  is  something  grating  in  that  term,  yet  the  disagreeable- 
ness  of  it  is  done  away  by  the  words  immediately  following : 

"  Thee,  Matthew,  Nature's  sel'  shall  mourn. 
By  wood  and  wild. 
Where,  haply,  pity  strays  forlorn, 

By  man  exil'd." 

The  poet  is  no  sooner  on  the  wing,  than  he  rejoices  in  his 
strength  of  pinion,  and  with  equal  ease  soars  and  stoops.  We 
know  not  where  to  look,  in  the  whole  range  of  poetry,  for  an  In- 
vocation to  the  great  and  fair  objects  of  the  external  world,  so 
rich  and  various  in  imagery,  and  throughout  so  sustained ;  and 
here  again  we  do  not  fear  to  refer  to  the  Lycidas — and  to  say 
that  Robert  Burns  will  stand  a  comparison  with  John  Milton. 

"  But  oh,  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone. 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return  ! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods,  and  desert  caves. 
With  wild  thyme,  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown, 
And  all  their  echoes  mourn  : 
The  willows  and  the  hazel  copses  green 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen. 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose. 
Or  taint-worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze. 
Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear. 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows; 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 
***** 
*         *         *  Return,  Sicilian  Muse, 

And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues, 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks. 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart-star  sparely  looks,  . 

Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamell'd  eyes. 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honied  showers,  ' 

And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers.  ^c 

Bring  the  rath  primrose  that  forsaken  dies,  .^-■'''' 

The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine,  ^>^ 

The 

The  growing  violet, 
The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine, 


le  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freak'd  with  jet«^^V' 
le  errowinar  violet.  '^^^  ^ 


M 


I 


J^l 


132  THE  GENIUS  AND 


With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head. 
And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears : 
Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 
And  daffodillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears, 
To  strew  the  Laureat  herse  where  Lycid  lies." 

All  who  know  the  "  Lycidas,"  know  how  impossible  it  is  to 
detach  any  one  single  passage  from  the  rest,  without  marring  its 
beauty  of  relationship — without  depriving  it  of  the  charm  con- 
sisting in  the  rise  and  fall — the  undulation — in  which  the  whole 
divine  poem  now  gently  and  now  magnificently  fluctuates.  But 
even  when  thus  detached,  the  poetry  of  these  passages  is  exqui- 
site— the  expression  is  perfect — consummate  art  has  crowned 
the  conceptions  of  inspired  genius — and  shall  we  dare  set  by 
their  side  stanzas  written  by  a  ploughman^?  We  shall.  But 
first  hear  Wordsworth.  In  the  Excursion,  the  Pedlar  says — 
and  the  Exciseman  corroborates  its  truth — 

"  The  poets  in  their  elegies  and  hymns 
Lamenting  the  departed,  call  the  groves  ; 
They  call  upon  the  hills  and  streams  to  mourn  ; 
And  senseless  rocks  ;  nor  idly  :  for  they  speak 
In  these  their  invocations  with  a  voice 
Of  human  passion," 

You  have  heard  Milton — hear  Burns — 

"  Ye  hills,  near  neebors  o'  the  starns. 
That  proudly  cock  your  crested  cairns  ! 
Ye  cliffs,  the  haunts  of  sailing  yearns. 

Where  echo  slumbers ! 
Come  join  ye.  Nature's  sturdiest  bairns. 
My  wailing  numbers ! 

"  Mourn,  ilka  grove  the  cushat  kens  ! 
Ye  haz'lly  shaws  and  briery  dens  ! 
Ye  burnies,  wimplin'  down  your  glens, 

Wi'  toddlin'  din. 
Or  foaming  Strang,  wi'  hasty  stens, 

Frae  linn  to  linn  ! 

"  Mourn,  little  harebells  o'er  the  lea , 
Ye  stately  foxgloves  fair  to  see. 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  133 

Ye  woodbines,  hanging  bonnilie, 

In  scented  bow'rs ; 
Ye  roses  on  your  thorny  tree, 

The  first  o'  flow'rs. 

At  dawn,  when  ev'ry  grassy  blade 

Droops  with  a  diamond  at  its  head ; 

At  ev'n,  when  beans  their  fragrance  shed, 

r  th'  rustling  gale  ; 
Ye  maukins  whiddin  thro'  the  glade, 

Come  join  my  wail 

Mourn,  ye  wee  songsters  o'  the  wood ; 
Ye  grouse  that  crap  the  heather  bud ; 
Ye  kurlews  calling  thro'  a  clud ; 

Ye  whistling  plover ; 
And  mourn,  ye  whirring  paitrick  brood  ! 

He's  gane  for  ever  I 

•  Mourn,  sooty  coots,  and  speckled  teals  ; 
Ye  fisher  herons,  watching  eels ; 
Ye  duck  and  drake,  wi'  airy  wheels 

Circling  the  lake ; 
Ye  bitterns,  till  the  quagmire  reels, 

Rair  for  his  sake. 

=  Mourn,  clam'ring  craiks  at  close  o'  day, 
'Mang  fields  o'  flowing  clover  gay  ; 
And  when  ye  wing  your  annual  way 

Frae  our  cauld  shore. 
Tell  thae  far  worlds,  wha  lies  in  clay. 

Wham  ye  deplore. 

'  Ye  houlets,  frae  your  ivy  bow'r. 
In  some  auld  tree,  or  eldritch  tow'r. 
What  time  the  moon,  wi'  silent  glow'r 

Sets  up  her  horn, 
Wail  thro'  the  dreary  midnight  hour 

Till  waukrife  morn ! 

"  Oh,  rivers,  forests,  hills,  and  plains  ! 
Oft  have  ye  heard  my  canty  strains : 
But  now,  what  else  for  me  remains 
But  tales  of  wo  ? 
And  frae  my  een  the  drapping  rains 
Maun  ever  flow. 


134  THE  GENIUS  AND 


"  Mourn,  spring,  thou  darling  of  the  year  ! 
Ilk  cowslip  cup  shall  kep  a  tear  : 
Thou,  simmer,  while  each  corny  spear 
Shoots  up  its  head. 
Thy  gay,  green,  flow'ry  tresses  shear 

For  him  that's  dead. 

*«  Thou,  autumn,  wi'  thy  yellow  hair, 
In  grief  thy  sallow  mantle  tear  ! 
Thou,  winter,  hurling  thro'  the  air 

The  roaring  blast. 
Wide  o'er  the  naked  world  declare 

The  worth  we've  lost !  * 

"  Mourn  him,  thou  sun,  great  source  of  light! 
Mourn,  empress  of  the  silent  night  I 
And  you,  ye  twinkling  starnies  bright, 

My  Matthew  mourn ! 
For  through  your  orbs  he's  ta'en  his  flight, 

Ne'er  to  return." 

Of  all  Burns's  friends,  the  most  efficient  was  Graham  of  Fin- 
try.  To  him  he  owed  Exciseman's  diploma — settlement  as  a 
gauger  in  the  District  of  Ten  Parishes,  when  he  was  gudeman 
at  Ellisland — translation  as  gauger  to  Dumfries — support  against 
insidious  foes  despicable  yet  not  to  be  despised  with  rumor  at 
their  head — vindication  at  the  Excise  Board — pro  loco  et  tempore 
supervisorship — and  though  he  knew  not  of  it,  security  from 
dreaded  degradation  on  his  deathbed.  "  His  First  Epistle  to 
Mr.  Graham  of  Fintry  "  is  in  the  style,  shall  we  say  it,  of  Dry- 
den  and  Pope  ?  It  is  a  noble  composition  ;  and  these  fine,  vigo- 
rous, rough,  and  racy  lines  truly  and  duly  express  at  once  his 
independence  and  his  gratitude  : 

"  Come  thou  who  giv'st  with  all  a  courtier's  grace  ; 
Friend  of  my  life,  true  patron  of  my  rhymes  ! 
Prop  of  my  dearest  hopes  for  future  times. 
Why  shrinks  my  soul  half  blushing,  half  afraid. 
Backward,  abash'd,  to  ask  thy  friendly  aid  ? 
I  know  my  need,  I  know  thy  giving  hand, 
I  crave  thy  friendship  at  thy  kind  command  ■; 
But  there  are  such  who  court  the  tuneful  nine — 
Heavens  !  should  the  branded  character  be  mine  ! 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  135 

Whose  verse  in  manhood's  pride  sublimely  flows, 

Yet  vilest  reptiles  in  their  begging  prose. 

Mark,  how  their  lofty  independent  spirit 

Soars  on  the  spurning  wing  of  injur'd  merit ! 

Seek  not  the  proofs  in  private  life  to  find ; 

Pity  the  best  of  words  should  be  but  wind  ! 

So  to  heaven's  gates  the  lark's  shrill  song  ascends,, 

But  groveling  on  the  earth  the  carol  ends. 

In  all  the  clam'rous  cry  of  starving  want. 

They  dun  benevolence  with  shameless  front 

Oblige  them,  patronise  their  tinsel  lays. 

They  persecute  you  all  their  future  days  ! 

Ere  my  poor  soul  such  deep  damnation  stain. 

My  horny  fist  assume  the  plough  again  ; 

The  pie-bald  jacket  let  me  patch  once  more  ; 

On  eighteen-pence  a-week  I've  liv'd  before. 

Tho'  thanks  to  heaven,  I  dare  even  that  last  shift 

I  trust,  meantime,  my  boon  is  in  thy  gift : 

That,  plac'd  by  thee  upon  the  wish'd-for  height. 

Where,  man  and  nature  fairer  in  her  sight, 

My  muse  may  imp  her  wing  for  some  sublimer  flight." 

Head  over  again  the  last  three  lines  !  The  favor  requested  was 
removal  from  the  laborious  and  extensive  district  which  he  siir- 
veyed  for  the  Excise  at  EUisland  to  one  of  smaller  dimensions 
Bt  Dumfries !  In  another  Epistle,  he  renews  the  request,  and 
«ays  most  affectingly — 

"  I  dread  thee,  fate,  relentless  and  severe. 
With  all  a  poet's,  husband's,  father's  fear  ! 
Already  one  strong  hold  of  hope  is  lost, 
Glencairn,  the  truly  noble,  lies  in  dust 
(Fled,  like  the  sun  eclips'd  at  noon  appears. 
And  left  us  darkling  in  a  world  of  tears)  ; 
Ob  !  hear  my  ardent,  grateful,  selfish  prayer  ! — 
Fintry,  my  other  stay,  long  bless  and  spare  ! 
^  Thro'  a  long  life  his  hopes  and  wishes  crown  ; 

And  bright  in  cloudless  skies  his  sun  go  down  ! 
May  bliss  domestic  smoothe  his  private  path. 
Give  energy  to  life,  and  soothe  his  latest  breath. 
With  many  a  filial  tear  circling  the  bed  of  death  ?" 

The  favor  was  granted — and  in  another  Epistle  was  requited 
with  immortal  thanks. 


136  THE  GENIUS  AND 


**  I  call  no  goddess  to  inspire  my  strains, 
A  fabled  muse  may  suit  a  bard  that  feigns ; 
Friend  of  my  life  !  my  ardent  spirit  burns. 
And  all  the  tribute  of  my  heart  returns. 
For  boons  accorded,  goodness  ever  new. 
The  gift  still  dearer,  as  the  giver,  you. 

"  Thou  orb  of  day  !  thy  other  paler  light ! 
And  all  ye  many  sparkling  stars  of  night ; 
If  aught  that  giver  from  my  mind  efface, 
If  I  that  giver's  bounty  e'er  disgrace ; 
Then  roll  to  me,  along  your  wandering  spheres. 
Only  to  number  out  a  villain's  years !" 

Love,  Friendship,  Independence,  Patriotism — these  were  the 
perpetual  inspirers  of  his  genius,  even  when  they  did  not  form 
the  theme  of  his  effusions.  His  religious  feelings,  his  resent- 
ment against  hypocrisy,  and  other  occasional  inspirations,  availed 
only  to  the  occasion  on  which  they  appear.  But  these  influence 
him  at  all  times,  even  while  there  is  not  a  whisper  about  them, 
and  when  himself  is  unconscious  of  their  operation.  Every- 
thing most  distinctive  of  his  character  will  be  found  to  apper- 
tain to  them,  whether  we  regard  him  as  a  poet  or  a  man.  His 
Patriotism  was  of  the  true  poetic  kind — intense — exclusive; 
Scotland  and  the  climate  of  Scotland  were  in  his  eyes  the  dear- 
est to  nature — Scotland  and  the  people  of  Scotland  the  mother 
and  the  children  of  liberty.  In  his  exultation,  when  a  thought 
of  foreign  lands  crossed  his  fancy,  he  asked,  "  What  are  they  ? 
the  haunts  of  the  tyrant  and  slave."  This  was  neither  philoso- 
phical nor  philanthropical ;  in  this  Burns  was  a  bigot.  And 
the  cosmopolite  may  well  laugh  to  hear  the  cottager  proclaiming 
that  "the  brave  Caledonian  views  with  disdain"  spicy  forests 
and  gold-bubbling  fountains  with  their  ore  and  their  nutmegs — 
and  blessing  himself  in  scant  apparel  on  "  cauld  Caledonia'^ 
blast  on  the  wave."  The  doctrine  will  not  stand  the  scrutiny  of 
judgment ;  but  with  what  concentrated  power  of  poetry  does 
the  prejudice  burst  forth  ?  Let  all  lands  have  each  its  own  pre- 
judiced, bigoted,  patriotic  poets,  blind  and  deaf  to  what  lies 
beyond  their  own  hori^^on,  and  thus  shall  the  whole  habitable 
world  in  due  time  be  glorified.     Shakspeare  himself  was  never 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  137 

so  happy  as  when  setting  up  England  in  power,  in  beauty,  and 
in  majesty  above  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth. 

In  times  of  national  security  the  feeling  of  Patriotism  among 
the  masses  is  so  quiescent  that  it  seems  hardly  to  exist — in  their 
case  national  glory  or  national  danger  awakens  it,  and  it  leaps 
up  armed  cap-a-pie.  But  the  sacred  fire  is  never  extinct  in  a 
nation,  and  in  tranquil  times  it  is  kept  alive  in  the  hearts  of 
those  who  are  called  to  high  functions  in  the  public  service — by 
none  is  it  beeted  so  surely  as  by  the  poets.  It  is  the  identifica- 
tion of  individual  feeling  and  interest  with  those  of  a  commu- 
nity ;  and  so  natural  to  the  human  soul  is  this  enlarged  act  of 
sympathy,  that  when  not  called  forth  by  some  great  pursuit, 
peril,  or  success,  it  applies  itself  intensely  to  internal  policy  ;  and 
hence  the  animosities  and  rancor  of  parties,  which  are  evidences, 
nay  forms,  though  degenerate  ones,  of  the  Patriotic  Feeling  ;  and 
this  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  on  the  approach  of  common  dan- 
ger, party  differences  in  a  great  measure  cease,  and  are  trans- 
muted into  the  one  harmonious  elemental  Love  of  our  Native 
Land.  Burns  was  said  at  one  time  to  have  been  a  Jacobin  as 
well  as  a  Jacobite  ;  and  it  must  have  required  even  all  his 
genius  to  effect  such  a  junction.  He  certainly  wrote  some  so-so 
verses  to  the  Tree  of  Liberty,  and  like  Cowper,  Wordsworth, 
and  other  great  and  good  men,  rejoiced  when  down  fell  the  Bas- 
tille. But  when  there  was  a  talk  of  taking  our  Island,  he  soon 
evinced  the  nature  of  his  affection  for  the  French. 

"  Does  haughty  Gaul  invasion  threat  ? 
Then  let  the  loons  beware,  Sir, 
There's  wooden  walls  upon  our  seas. 

And  volunteers  on  shore.  Sir. 
The  Nith  shall  run  to  Corsincon, 

And  CrifTel  sink  in  Solway, 
Ere  v/e  permit  a  foreign  foe 
On  British  ground  to  rally. 

Fall  de  rail,  &c. 

"  0  let  us  not  like  snarling  tykes 

In  wrangling  be  divided ; 

Till  slap  come  in  an  unco  loon 

And  wi'  a  rung  decide  it. 


138  THE  GENIUS  AKD 


Be  Britain  still  to  Britain  true, 

Amang  oui-sels  united ; 
For  never  but  by  British  hands 

Maun  British  wrangs  be  righted. 

Fall  de  rail,  &c. 

"  The  kettle  o'  the  kirk  and  state. 
Perhaps  a  claut  may  fail  in 't ; 
But  deil  a  foreign  tinker  loun 

Shall  fever  ca'  a  nail  in 't. 
Our  fathers'  bluid  the  kettle  bought, ' 

And  wha  wad  dare  to  spoil  it ; 
By  heaven  the  sacrilegious  dog 
Shall  fuel  be  to  boil  it. 

Fall  de  rail,  &c. 

*'  The  wretch  that  wad  a  tyrant  own, 

And  the  wretch  his  true-born  brother. 
Who  would  set  the  mob  abooa  the  throne y 

May  they  be  damn'd  together ! 
Who  will  not  sin;^,  '  God  save  the  King,' 

Shall  hang  as  high  's  the  steeple ; 
But  while  we  sing,  '  God  save  the  King,' 

We'll  ne'er  forget  the  People." 

These  are  far  from  being  "  elegant "  stanzas — there  is  even  a 
rudeness  about  them — but 't  is  the  rudeness  of  the  Scottish  Thistle 
— a  paraphrase  of  "ne/no  me  impune  lacesset."  The  staple  of 
the  war-song  is  home-grown  and  home-spun.  It  flouts  the  air 
like  a  banner  not  idly  spread,  whereon  "  the  ruddy  Lion  ramps 
in  gold."  Not  all  the  orators  of  the  day,  in  Parliament  or  out 
of  it,  in  all  their  speeches  put  together  embodied  more  political 
wisdom,  or  appealed  with  more  effective  power  to  the  noblest 
principles  of  patriotism  in  the  British  heart. 

"  A  gentleman  of  birth  and  talents  "  thus  writes,  in  1835,  to 
Allan  Cunninghame :  "  I  was  at  the  play  in  Dumfries,  October, 
1792,  the  Caledonian  Hunt  being  then  in  town — the  play  was 
^  As  you  like  it ' — Miss  Fontenelle,  Rosalind — when  '  God  save 
the  king '  was  called  for  and  sung  ;  we  all  stood  up  uncovered, 
but  Burns  sat  still  in  the  middle  of  the  pit,  with  his  hat  on  his 
head.  There  was  a  great  tumult,  with  shouts  of  '  turn  him  out' 
and  ^ shame  Burns!'  which  continued  a  good  while  ;  at  last  he 


CHARACTER.  OF  BURNS.  139 

was  either  expelled  or  forced  to  take  off  his  hat — I  forget  which." 
And  a  lady  with  whom  Robert  Chambers  once  conversed,  "  re- 
membered being  present  in  the  theatre  of  Dumfries,  during  the 
heat  of  the  Revolution,  when  Burns  entered  the  pit  somewhat 
affected  by  liquor.  On  God  save  the  king  being  struck  up,  the 
audience  rose  as  usual,  all  except  the  intemperate  poet,  who 
cried  for  Ca  ira.  A  tumult  was  the  consequence,  and  Burns 
was  compelled  to  leave  the  house."  We  cannot  believe  that 
Burns  ever  was  guilty  of  such  vulgar  insolence — such  brutality  ; 
nothing  else  at  all  like  it  is  recorded  of  him — and  the  worthy 
story-tellers  are  not  at  one  as  to  the  facts.  The  gentleman's 
memory  is  defective  ;  but  had  he  himself  been  the  offender, 
surely  he  would  not  have  forgot  whether  he  had  been  compelled  to 
take  off  his  hat,  or  had  been  jostled,  perhaps  only  kicked  out  of 
the  play-house.  The  lady's  eyes  and  ears  were  sharper — for 
she  saw  "  Burns  enter  the  pit  somewhat  affected  by  liquor,"  and 
then  heard  him  "  cry  for  Ca  iraJ^  By  what  means  he  was 
"  compelled  to  leave  the  house,"  she  does  not  say ;  but  as  he 
was  "  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  pit,"  he  must  have  been  walked 
out  very  gently,  so  as  not  to  have  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
male  narrator.  If  this  public  outrage  of  all  decorum,  decency, 
and  loyalty,  had  been  perpetrated  by  Burns,  in  October,  one  is 
at  a  loss  to  comprehend  how,  in  December,  he  could  have  been 
"  surprised,  confounded,  and  distracted  by  Mr.  Mitchell,  the  Col-, 
lector,  telling  me  that  he  has  received  an  order  for  your  Board 
to  inquire  into  my  political  conduct,  and  blaming  me  as  a  person 
disaffected  to  government."  The  fact  we  believe  to  be  this — 
that  Burns,  whose  loyalty  was  suspected,  had  been  rudely  com- 
manded to  take  off  his  hat  by  some  vociferous  time-servers — 
just  as  he  was  going  to  do  so — that  the  row  arose  from  his  de- 
clining to  uncover  on  compulsion,  and  subsided  on  his  disdain- 
fully doffing  his  beaver  of  his  own  accord.  Had  he  cried  for 
Ca  ira,  he  would  have  deserved  dismissal  from  the  Excise ;  and 
in  his  own  opinion,  translation  to  another  post — "  Wha  will  not 
sing  God  save  the  King,  shall  hang  as  high  's  the  steeple."  The 
year  before,  "during  the  heat  of  the  French  Revolution,"  Burns 
composed  his  grand  war-song — "Farewell,  thou  fair  day,  thou 
green  earth,  and  ye  skies,"  and  sent  it  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  with  these 


140  THE  GENIUS  AND 


words  :  "  I  have  just  finished  the  following  song,  which  to  a 
lady,  the  descendant  of  Wallace,  and  many  heroes  of  his  truly 
illustrious  line — and  herself  the  mother  of  several  soldiers — 
needs  neither  preface  nor  apology."  And  the  year  after ^  he 
composed  "  The  Poor  and  Honest  Sodger,"  "  which  was  sung," 
says  Allan  Cuninghame,  "  in  every  cottage,  village,  and  town. 
Yet  the  man  who  wrote  it  was  supposed  by  the  mean  and  the 
spiteful  to  be  no  well-wisher  to  his  country !"  Why,  as  men 
who  have  any  hearts  at  all,  love  their  parents  in  any  circum- 
stances, so  they  love  their  country,  be  it  great  or  small,  poor 
or  wealthy,  learned  or  ignorant,  free  or  enslaved  ;  and  even 
disgrace  and  degradation  will  not  quench  their  filial  affection 
to  it.  But  Scotsmen  have  good  reason  to  be  proud  of  their  coun- 
try ;  not  so  much  for  any  particular  event,  as  for  her  whole 
historical  progress.  Particular  events,  however,  are  thought  of 
by  them  as  the  landmarks  of  that  progress  ;  and  these  are  the 
great  points  of  history  "  conspicuous  in  the  nation's  eye." 
Earlier  times  present  "  the  unconquered  Caledonian  spear ;" 
later,  the  unequal  but  generally  victorious  struggles  with  the 
sister  country,  issuing  in  national  independence  ;  and  later  still, 
the  holy  devotion  of  the  soul  of  the  people  to  their  own  profound 
religious  Faith,  and  its  simple  Forms.  Would  that  Burns  had 
pondered  more  on  that  warfare !  That  he  had  sung  its  final 
triumph  !  But  we  must  be  contented  with  his  "  Scots  wha  hae 
wi'  Wallace  bled ;"  and  with  repeating  after  it  with  him,  "  So 
may  God  defend  the  cause  of  truth  and  liberty,  as  he  did  that 
day !     Amen !" 

Mr.  Syme  tells  us  that  Burns  composed  this  ode  on  the  31st 
of  July,  1793,  on  the  moor  road  between  Kenmure  and  Gate- 
house. "  The  sky  was  sympathetic  with  the  wretchedness  of  the 
soil ;  it  became  lowering  and  dark — tlie  winds  sighed  hollow — 
the  lightning  gleamed — the  thunders  rolled.  The  poet  enjoyed 
the  awful  scene — he  spoke  not  a  word — but  seemed  rapt  in  me- 
ditation. In  a  little  while  the  rain  began  to  fall — it  poured  in 
floods  upon  us.  For  three  hours  did  the  wild  elements  rumble 
their  bellyful  upon  our  defenceless  heads."  That  is  very  fine 
indeed  ;  and  "  what  do  you  think,"  asks  Mr.  Syme,  "  Burns  was 
about  ?     He  was  charging  the  English  Army  along  with  Brure 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  141 

at  Bannockburri."  On  the  second  of  August — when  the  weather 
was  more  sedate — on  their  return  from  St.  Mary's  Isle  to  Dum- 
fries, "  he  was  engaged  in  the  same  manner  ;"  and  it  appears 
from  one  of  his  own  letters,  that  he  returned  to  the  charge  one 
evening  in  September.  The  thoughts,  and  feelings,  and  images, 
came  rushing  upon  him  during  the  storm — they  formed  them- 
selves into  stanzas,  like  so  many  awkward  squads  of  raw  levies, 
during  the  serene  state  of  the  atmosphere — and  under  the  liar- 
vest  moon,  firm  as  the  measured  tread  of  marching  men,  with 
admirable  precision  they  wheeled  into  line.  This  account  of 
the  composition  of  the  Ode  would  seem  to  clear  Mr.  Syme  from 
a  charge  nothing  short  of  falsehood  brought  against  him  by 
Allan  Cuninghame.  Mr.  Syme's  words  are,  "  I  said  that  in  the 
midst  of  the  storm,  &n  the  wilds  of  Kenmure,  Burns  was  rapt  in 
meditation.  What  do  you  think  he  was  about  1  He  was  charg- 
ing  the  English  army  along  with  Bruce  at  Bannockburn.  He 
was  engaged  in  the  same  manner  in  our  ride  home  from  St. 
Mary's  Isle,  and  I  did  not  disturb  him.  Next  day  he  produced 
me  the  address  of  Bruce  to  his  troops,  and  gave  me  a  copy  to  DaL 
zellP  Nothing  can  be  more  circumstantial ;  and  if  not  true,  it 
is  a  thumper.  Allan  says,  "  Two  or  three  plain  words,  and  a 
stubborn  date  or  two,  will  go  far  I  fear  to  raise  this  pleasing  le- 
gend into  the  regions  of  romance.  The  Galloway  adventure, 
according  to  Syme,  happened  in  July ;  but  in  the  succeeding 
September,  the  poet  announced  the  song  to  Thomson  in  these 
words :  '  There  is  a  tradition  which  I  have  met  with  in  many 
places  in  Scotland  that  the  air  of  "  Hey  tuttie  taittie  "  was  Robert 
Bruce's  march  at  the  Battle  of  Bannockburn.  This  thought  in 
my  yesternight'' s  evening  walk  warmed  me  to  a  pitch  of  enthu- 
siasm on  the  theme  of  liberty  and  independence,  which  I  threw 
into  a  kind  of  Scottish  ode — that  one  might  suppose  to  be  the 
royal  Scot's  address  to  his  heroic  followers  on  that  eventful 
morning.  I  showed  the  air  to  Urbani,  who  was  greatly  pleased 
with  it,  and  begged  me  to  make  soft  verses  for  it ;  but  I  had  no 
idea  of  giving  myself  any  trouble  on  the  subject  till  the  acci- 
dental recollection  of  that  glorious  struggle  for  freedom,  asso- 
ciated with  the  glowing  idea  of  some  other  struggles  of  the  same 
nature,  not  quite  so  ancient,  roused  up  my  rhyming  mania  1 ' 


142  THE  GENIUS  AND 


Currie,  to  make  the  letter  agree  with  the  legend,  altered  y ester- 
night's  evening  walk  into  solitary  wanderings.  Burns  was  in- 
deed a  remarkable  man,  and  yielded  no  doubt  to  strange  im- 
pulses;  but  to  compose  a  song  'in  thunder,  lightning,  and  in 
rain,'  intimates  such  self-possession  as  few  possess."  We  can 
more  readily  believe  that  Burns  wrote  ^'  yesternigMs  evening 
walk,''  to  save  himself  the  trouble  of  entering  into  any  detail  of 
his  previous  study  of  the  subject,  than  that  Syme  told  a  down- 
right lie.  As  to  composing  a  song  in  a  thunder-storm,  Cuning- 
hame — who  is  himself  "  a  remarkable  man,"  and  has  composed 
some  songs  worthy  of  being  classed  with  those  of  Burns,  would 
find  it  one. of  the  easiest  and  pleasantest  of  feats  ;  for  lightning 
is  among  the  most  harmless  vagaries  of  the  electric  fluid,  and  in 
a  hilly  country,  seldom  singes  hut  worsted  Stockings  and  sheep. 
Burns  sent  the  Address  in  its  perfection  to  George  Thomson — 
recommending  it  to  be  set  to  the  old  air — "  Hey  tutiie  taittie  " — 
according  to  Tradition,  who  cannot,  however,  be  reasonably  ex- 
pected "  to  speak  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth  " — Robert  Bruce's  march  at  the  Battle  of  Bannockburn. 
A  committee  of  taste  sat  on  "  Hey  tuitie  taittie,''  and  pronounced 
it  execrable.  "  I  happened  to  dine  yesterday,"  says  Mr.  Thom- 
son, "  with  a  party  of  your  friends,  to  whom  I  read  it.  They  were 
all  charmed  with  it ;  entreated  me  to  find  out  a  suitable  air  for 
it,  and  reprobated  the  idea  of  giving  it  a  tune  so  totally  devoid 
of  interest  or  grandeur  as  ^  Hey  tuttie  taittie.'  Assuredly  your 
partiality  for  this  tune  must  arise  from  the  ideas  associated  in 
your  mind  by  the  tradition  concerning  it,  for  I  never  heard  any 
person — and  I  have  conversed  again  and  again  with  the  greatest 
enthusiasts  for  Scottish  airs — I  say,  I  never  heard  any  one  speak 
of  it  as  worthy  of  notice.  I  have  been  running  over  the  whole 
hundred  airs — of  v/hich  I  have  lately  sent  you  the  list — and  I 
think  Lewie  Gordon  is  most  happily  adapted  to  your  ode,  at  least 
with  a  very  slight  alteration  of  the  fourth  line,  which  I  shall 
presently  submit  to  you.  Now  the  variation  I  have  to  suggest 
upon  the  last  line  of  each  verse,  the  only  line  too  short  for  the 
air,  is  as  follows:  Verse  1st,  Or  io glorious  victory.  2d,  Chains 
— chains  and  slavery.  3d,  Let  him,  let  him  turn  and  flee.  4th, 
Let  him  bravely  follow  me.     5th,  But  they  shall,  they  shall  be 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  143 

free.  6th,  Let  us,  let  us  do  or  die."  "  Glorious  "  and  "  brave- 
ly," bad  as  they  are,  especially  "  bravely,"  which  is  indeed 
most  bitter  bad,  might  have  been  borne ;  but  just  suppose  for  a 
moment,  that  Robert  Bruce  had,  in  addressing  his  army  "  on  the 
morning  of  that  eventful  day,"  come  over  again  in  that  odd  way 
every  word  he  uttered,  "  chains — chains;"  "let  him — let  him;" 
"they  shall — they  shall;"  "let  us — let  us;"  why  the  army 
would  have  thought  him  a  Bauldy  !  Action,  unquestionably,  is 
the  main  point  in  oratory,  and  Bruce  might  have  imposed  on 
many  by  the  peculiar  style  in  which  it  is  known  he  handled  his 
battle-axe,  but  we  do  not  hesitate  to  assert  that  had  he  stuttered 
in  that  style,  the  English  would  have  won  the  day.  Burns 
winced  sorely,  but  did  what  he  could  to  accommodate  Lewie 
Gordon. 

"The  only  line,"  said  Mr.  T.,  "which  I  dislike  in  the  whole 
of  the  song  is  '  Welcome  to  your  gory  bed.'  Would  not  another 
word  be  preferable  to  '  welcome  V  "  Mr.  T.  proposed  "  hon- 
or's bed;"  but  Burns  replied,  "Your  idea  of  'honor's  bed'  is, 
though  a  beautiful,  a  hackneyed  idea  ;  so  if  you  please  we  will 
let  the  line  stand  as  it  is."  But  Mr.  T.  was  tenacious — "  One 
word  more  with  regard  to  your  heroic  ode.  I  think,  with  great 
deference  to  the  poet,  that  a  prudent  general  would  avoid  saying 
anything  to  his  soldiers  which  might  tend  to  make  death  more 
frightful  than  it  is.  '  Gory '  presents  a  disagreeable  image  to  the 
mind  ;  and  to  tell  them,  '  Welcome  to  your  gory  bed,'  seems 
rather  a  discouraging  address,  notwithstanding  the  alternative 
which  follows.  I  have  shown  the  song  to  three  friends  of  excellent 
taste,  and  each  of  them  objected  to  this  line,  which  emboldens 
me  to  use  the  freedom  of  bringing  it  again  under  your  notice. 
I  would  suggest  '  Now  prepare  for  honor's  bed,  or  for  glorious 
victory.' "  Quoth  Burns  grimly — "  My  ode  pleases  me  so  much 
that  I  cannot  alter  it.  Your  proposed  alteration  would,  in  my 
opinion,  make  it  tame.  I  have  scrutinized  it  over  and  over 
again,  and  to  the  world  some  way  or  other  it  shall  go,  as  it  is." 
That  four  Scotsmen,  taken  seriatim  et  separatim — in  the  martial  ar- 
dor of  their  patriotic  souls  should  object  to  "  Welcome  to  your  gory 
bed,"  from  an  uncommunicated  apprehension  common  to  the  na- 
ture of  them  all  and  operating  like  an  instinct,  that  it  was  fitted 


144  THE  GENIUS  AND 


to   frighten  Robert  Bruce's  army,  and  make  it  take  to  its  heels, 
leaving  the  cause  of  Liberty  and  Independence  to  shift  for  itself, 
is  a  coincidence  that  sets  at  defiance  the  doctrine  of  chances, 
proves  history  to  be  indeed  an  old  almanack,  and  national  ch 
racter  an  empty  name. 

"  Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led. 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  victory. 

'*  Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour ; 

See  the  front  o'  battle  lower ; 
/    See  approach  proud  Edward's  power — 
Chains  and  slavery  ! 

*'  Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 
Let  him  turn  and  flee  ! 

"  Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Free-man  stand,  or  free-man  fa', 
Let  him  on  wi'  me ! 

"  By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  ! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 
But  they  shall  be  free  ! 

"  Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow  ! 
Let  us  do,  or  die  !** 

All  Scotsmen  at  home  and  abroad  swear  this  is  the  Grandest  Ode 
out  of  the  Bible.  Wliatif  it  be  not  an  Ode  at  all  ?  An  Ode, 
however,  let  it  be ;  then,  wherein  lies  the  power  it  possesses  of 
stirring  up  into  a  devouring  fire  the  perfervidum  ingenium  Scoto- 
rum  ?  The  two  armies  suddenly  stand  before  us  in  order  of  bat- 
tle— and  in  the  grim  repose  preceding  the  tempest  we  hear  but 
the  voice  of  Bruce.  The  whole  Scottish  army  hears  it — now 
standing   on   their  feet — risen   from  their  knees  as  the  abbot 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  145 

of  Inchchaffray  had  blessed  them  and  the  Banner  of  Scotland 
with  its  roots  of  Stone.  At  the  first  six  m  ords  a  hollow  murmur 
is  in  that  wood  of  spears.  "  Welcome  to  your  gory  bed !"  a 
shout  that  shakes  the  sky.  Hush  !  hear  the  King.  At  Edward^s 
name  what  a  yell !  "  Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ?"  Mutter- 
ing thunder  growls  reply.  The  inspired  Host  in  each  appeal 
anticipates  the  Leader — yet  shudders  with  fresh  wrath,  as  if 
each  reminded  it  of  some  intolerable  wrong.  "  Let  us  do  or 
die  " — the  English  are  overthrown — and  Scotland  is  free. 

That  is  a  very  Scottish  critique  indeed — but  none  the  worse 
for  that ;  so  our  English  friends  must  forgive  it,  and  be  consoled 
by  Flodden.  The  Ode  is  sublime.  Death  and  Life  at  that 
hour  are  one  and  the  same  to  the  heroes.  So  that  Scotland  but 
survive,  what  is  breath  or  blood  to  them  ?  Their  being  is  in 
their  country's  liberty,  and  with  it  secured  they  will  live  for 
ever.     '    ' 

Oui*  critique  is  getting  more  and  more  Scottish  still ;  so  to  rid 
ourselves  of  nationality,  we  request  such  of  you  as  think  we  over- 
laud  the  Ode  to  point  out  one  word  in  it  that  would  be  better 
away.  You  cannot.  Then  pray  have  the  goodness  to  point  out 
one  word  missing  that  ought  to  have  been  there — please  to  insert  a 
desiderated  stanza.  You  cannot.  Then  let  the  bands  of  all  the 
Scottish  regiments  play  "  Hey  tuittie  taitie  ;"  and  the  two  Dun- 
Edins  salute  one  another  with  a  salvo  that  shall  startle  the 
echoes  from  Berwick-Law  to  Benmore. 

Of  the  delight  with  which  Burns  labored  for  Mr.  Thomson's 
Collection,  his  letters  contain  some  lively  description.  "You 
cannot  imagine,"  says  ^he,  7th  April,  1793,  '•  how  much  this 
business  has  added  to  *my  enjoyment.  What  with  my  early 
attachment  to  ballads,  your  book  and  ballad-making  are  now  as 
completely  my  hobby  as  ever  fortification  was  my  uncle  Toby's  ; 
so  I'll  e'en  canter  it  away  till  I  come  to 'the  limit  of  my  race  (God 
o-rant  I  may  take  the  right  side  of  the  winning  post),  and  then, 
cheerfully  looking  back  on  the  honest  folks  with  whom  I  have 
been  happy,  I  shall  say  or  sing,  '  Sae  merry  as  we  a'  hae  been,' 
and  raising  my  last  looks  to  the  whole  human  race,  the  last 
words  of  the  voice  of  Cork  shall  be,  'Good  night  and  joy  be 
with  you  a' !'  "  James  Gray  was  the  first,  who  independently 
11 


THE  GENIUS  AND 


of  every  other  argument,  proved  the  impossibility  of  the  charges 
that  had  loo  long  been  suffered  to  circulate  without  refutation 
against  Burns's  character  and  conduct  during  his  later  years, 
by  pointing  to  these  almost  daily  effusions  of  his  clear  and  un- 
clouded genius.  His  innumerable  Letters  furnish  the  same 
best  proof;  and  when  we  consider  how  much  of  his  time  was 
occupied  by  his  professional  duties,  how  much  by  perpetual 
interruption  of  visitors  from  all  lands,  how  much  by  blameless 
social  intercourse  with  all  classes  in  Dumfries  and  its  neighbor- 
hood, and  how  frequently  he  suffered  under  constitutional  ail- 
ments affecting  the  very  seat  and  source  of  life,  we  cannot  help 
despising  the  unreflecting  credulity  of  his  biographers  who  with 
such  products  before  their  eyes,  such  a  display  of  feeling,  fancy, 
imagination  and  intellect  continually  alive  and  on  the  alert, 
could  keep  one  after  another  for  twenty  years  in  doleful  disser- 
tations deploring  over  his  habits — most  of  them  at  the  close  of 
their  wearisome  moralizing  anxious  to  huddle  all  up,  that  his 
countrymen  might  not  be  obliged  to  turn  away  their  faces  in 
shame  from  the  last  scene  in  the  Tragedy  of  the  Life  of  Robert 
Burns. 

During  the  four  years  Burns  lived  in  Dumfries  he  was  never 
known  for  one  hour  to  be  negligent  of  his  professional  duties. 
We  are  but  imperfectly  acquainted  with  the  details  of  the  bu- 
siness of  a  ganger,  but  the  calling  must  be  irksome  ;  and  he  was 
an  active,  steady,  correct,  courageous  officer — to  be  relied  on 
equally  in  his  conduct  and  his  accounts.  Josiah  Walker,  who 
was  himself,  if  we  mistake  not,  for  a  good  many  years  in  the 
Customs  or  Excise  at  Perth,  will  not  allow  him  to  have  been  a 
good  ganger.  In  descanting  on  the  unfortunate  circumstances 
of  his  situation,  he  says  with  a  voice  of  authority,  "  his  superi- 
ors were  bound  to  attend  to  no  qualification,  but  such  as  was 
conducive  to  the  benefit  of  the  revenue  ;  and  it  would  have  been 
equally  criminal  in  them  to  pardon  any  incorrectness  on  account 
of  his  literary  genius,  as  on  account  of  his  dexterity  in  plough- 
ing. The  merchant  or  attorney  who  acts  for  himself  alone,  is 
free  to  overlook  some  errors  of  his  clerk,  for  the  sake  of  merits 
totally  unconnected  with  business ;  but  the  Board  of  Excise  had 
no  power  to  indulge  their  poetical  taste,  or  their  tenderness  for 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  147 

him  by  whom  it  had  beeA  gratified,  at,the  expense  of  the  public. 
Burns  was  therefore  in  a  place  where  he  could  turn  his  peculiar 
endowments  to  little  advantage ;  and  where  he  could  not,  with- 
out injustice,  be  preferred  to  the  most  obtuse  and  uninteresting 
of  his  brethren,  who  surpassed  him  in  the  humble  recommenda- 
tion  of  exactness,  vigilance,  and  sobriety.     Attention  to  these 
circumstances   might  have  prevented  insinuations  against  the 
liberality  of  his  superior  officers,  for  showing  so  little  desire  to 
advance  him,  and  so  little  indulgence  to  those  eccentricities  for 
which  the  natural  temperament  of  genius    could  be   pleaded. 
For  two  years,  howeverj  Burns  stood  sufficiently  high  in  the 
opinion  of  the  Board,  and  it  is  surely  by  no  means  improper, 
that  where  professional  pretensions  are  nearly  balanced,  the  ad- 
ditional claims  of  literary  talent  should  be  permitted  to  turn  the 
scale.     Suoh  was  the  reasoning  qf  a  particular  member  of  the 
Board,  whose  taste  and  munificence  were  of  corresponding  ex- 
tent, and  who  saw  no  injustice   in  giving  some  preference  to  an 
officer  who  could  write  permits  as  well  as. any  other,  and  poems 
much   better."     Not  for  worlds  would  we  say  a  single  syllable 
derogatory  from  the  merits  of  the  Board  of  Excise.     We  respect 
the  character  of  the  defunct ;  and  did  we  not,  still  we  should 
have  the  most  delicate  regard  to  the  feelings  of  its  descendants, 
many  of  whom  are  probably  now  prosperous  gentlemen.     It  was 
a  Board  that  richly  deserved,  in  all  its  dealings,  the  utmost  eulo- 
gies with  which  the  genius  and  gratitude  of  Josiah  Walker  could 
brighten  its  green  cloth.     Most  criminal  indeed  would  it  have 
been  in  such  a  Board — most  wicked  and  most  sinful — "  to  par- 
don any  incorrectness  on  account  of  Burns's  literary  genius,  as 
on 'account  of  his  dexterity  in  ploughing."     Deeply  impressed 
with  a  sense — approaching  to  that  of  awe — of  the  responsibility 
of  the  Board  to  its  conscience  and  its  country,  we  feel  that  it 
is  better  late  than  never,  thus  to  declare  before  the  whole  world, 
A.D.  1840,  that  from  winter  1791  to  summer  1796,  the  "Board 
had  no  power  to  indulge  their  poetical  taste,  or  their  tender- 
ncss  for   him  by  whom  it  had  been   gratified,  at  the  expense 
of  the  public."     The  Board,  we  doubt  not,  had  a  true  innate 
poetical  taste,  and   must  have  derived  a  far  higher  and  deeper 
delight  from  the  poems  than  the  permits  of  Burns  ;  nay,  we  are 


148  THE  GENIUS  AND 


willing  to  believe  that  it  was  itself  tko  author  of  a  volume  of 
poetry,  and  editor  of  a  literary  journal. 

But  surpassing  even  Josiah  Walker  in  our  veneration  of  the 
Board,  we  ask,  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  the  character  of 
Burns  ?  Its  desire  and  its  impotcncy  to  promote  him  are 
granted  ;  but  of  what  incorrectness  had  Burns  been  guilty, 
which  it  would  have  been  criminal  in  the  Board  to  pardon  ? 
By  whom,  among  the  "  most  obtuse  and  uninteresting  of  his 
brethren,"  had  he  been  surpassed  *'  in  the  humble  recommen- 
dation of  exactness,  vigilance,  and  sobriety  ?"  Not  by  a  single 
one.  Mr.  Findlater,  who  was  Burns's  supervisor  from  his  ad- 
mission into  the  Excise,  and  sat  hy  him  the  night  before  he  died, 
says,  "  In  all  that  time,  the  superintendence  of  his  behavior, 
as  an  officer  of  the  revenue,  was  a  part  of  my  official  pro- 
vince, and  it  may  be  suppoafed  I  would  not  be  aiT  inattentive 
observer  of  the  general  conduct  of  a  man  and  a  poet  so  cele- 
brated by  his  countrymen.  '  In  the  former  capacity  he  was  ex- 
emplary in  his  attention,  and  Was  even  jealous  of  the  least 
imputation  on  his  vigilance.  *  *  *  It  M'as  not  till  near 
the  latter  end  of  his  days,  that  there  was  any  falling  off  in 
this  respect,  and  this,  was  amply  accounted  for  in  the  pressure 
of  disease  and  accumulating  infirmities.  I  will  farther  avow, 
that  I  never  saw  him — which  was  very  frequently  while  he 
lived  at  EUisland — and  still  more  so,  almost  every  day,  after  he 
removed  to  Dumfries,  but  in  hours  of  business  he  was  quite  him- 
self, and  capable  of  discharging  the  duties  of  liis  office  ;  nor 
was  he  ever  known  lo  drink  by  himself,  or  ever  to  indulge  in 
the  use  of  liquor  on  a  forenoon.  I  have  seen  Burns  in  all  his 
various  phases — in  his  convivia.1  moifnents,  in  his  sober  moods, 
'and  in  the  bosom  of  his  family;  indeed,  I  believe  that  I  saw 
more  of  him  than  any  other  individual  had  occasion  to  see, 
after  he  became  an  excise  officer,  and  I  never  beheld  any- 
thing like"  the  gross  enormities  with  which  he  is  now  charged. 
That  when  set  down  on  an  evening  with  a  few  friends  whom  he 
liked,  he  was  apt  to  prolong  the  social  hour  beyond  the  bounds 
which  prudence  would  dictate,  is  unquestionable ;  but  in  his 
family  I^  will  venture  to  say  he  was  never  otherwise  than  as 
attentive  and  affectionate  to  a  high  degree."     Such  is  the  testi- 


CHARACT^ER  OF  BURNS.  149 

mony  of  the  supervisor  respecting  the  gauger ;  and  in  that  ca- 
pacity Burns  stands  up  one  of  its  very  best  servants  before  the 
Board.  There  was  no  call,  therefore,  for  Josiah's  Jeremiad. 
But  our  words  have  not  been  wasted  ;  for  Burns's  character  has 
suffered  far  more  from  such  aspersions  as  these,  which,  easily 
as  they  cap  be  wiped  away,  were  too  long  left  as  admitted  stains 
on  his  memory,  than  from  definite  and  direct  charges  of  specific 
facts ;  and  it  is  still  the  duty  of  every  man  who  writes  about 
him,  to  apply  the  sponge.  Nothing,  we  repeat,  shall  tempt  us 
to  blame  or  abuse  the  Board.  But  we  venture  humbly  to  con- 
fess that  we  do  not  clearly  see  that  the  Board  would  have  been 
"  gratifying  its  tenderness  at  the  expense  of  the  public,"  had  it, 
when  told  by  Burns  that  he  was  dying,  and  disabled  by  the  hand 
of  God  from  performing  actively  the  duties  of  his  temporary  su- 
pervisorship,  requested  its  maker  to  continue  to  him  for  a  few 
months  his  full  salary — seventy  pounds  a  year — instead  of  re- 
ducing it  in  the  proportion  of  one-half — not  because  he  was  a 
genius,  a  poet,  and  the  author  of  many  immortal  productions — 
but  merely  because  ■  he  was  a  man  and  an  exciseman,  and 
moreover  the  father  of  a  few  mortal  children,  who  with  their 
mother  were  in  want  of  bread. 

Gray,  whom  we  knew  well  and  highly  esteemed,  was  a  very 
superior  man  to  honest  Findlater — a  man  of  poetical  taste  and 
feeling,  and  a  scholar — on  all  accounts  well  entitled  to  speak  of 
the  character  of  Burns ;  and  though  there  were  no  bounds  to  his 
enthusiasm  when  poets  and  poetry  were  the  themes  of  his  dis- 
course, he  was  a  worshipper  of  truth,  and  rightly  believed  that 
it  was  best  seen  in  the  light  of  love  and  admiration.  Compare 
his  bold,  generous,  and  impassioned  eulogy  on  the  noble  quali- 
ties and  dispositions  of  his  illustrious  friend,  with  the  timid, 
guarded,  and  repressed  praise  for  ever  bordering  on  censure,  of 
biographers  who  never  saw  the  poet's  face,  and  yet  have  dared 
to  draw  his  character  with  the  same  assurance  o^  certainty  in 
their  delineations  as  if  they  had  been  of  the  number  of  his 
familiai's,  and  had  looked  a  thousand  times,  by  night  and  day, 
into  the  saddest  secrets  of  his  heart.  Far  better,  surely,  in  a 
world  like  this,  to  do  more  rather  than  less  than  justice  to  the 
goodness  of  great  men.     No  fear  that  the  world,  in  its  fmal 


150  THE  GENIUS  AND 


judgment,  will  not  make  sufficient  deduction  from  the  laud,  if 
it  be  exaggerated,  which  love,  inspired  by  admiration  and  pity, 
delights  to  bestow,  as  the  sole  tribute  now  in  its  power,  on  the 
virtues  of  departed  genius.  Calumny  may  last  for  ages — we 
had  almost  said  for  ever;  lies  have  life  even  in  their  graves,  and 
centuries  after  they  have  been  interred  they  will  burst  their 
cerements,  and  walk  up  and  down,  in  the  face  of  day,  undistin- 
guishable  to  the  weak  eyes  ot  mortals  from  truths — till  they 
touch ;  and  then  the  truths  expand,  and  the  lies  shrivel  up,  but 
after  a  season  to  reappear,  and  to  be  welcomed  back  again  by 
the  dwellers  in  this  delusive  world. 

"  He  was  courted,"  says  Gray,  "  by  all  classes  of  men  for  tho 
fascinating  powers  of  his  conversation,  but  over  his  social  scene 
uncontrolled  passion  never  presided.  Over  the  social  bowl,  hi 
wit  flashed  for  hours  together,  penetrating  whatever  it  struck" 
like  the  fire  from  heaven ;  but  even  in  the  hour  of  thoughtless 
gaiety  and  merriment  I  never  knew  it  tainted  by  indecency.  It 
was  playful  or  caustic  by  turns,  following  an  allusion  through 
all  its  windings ;  astonishing  by  its  rapidity,  or  amusing  by  iia 
wild  originality  and  grotesque  yet  natural  combinations,  but 
never,  within  my  observation,  disgusting  by  its  grossness.  In 
his  morning  hours,  I  never  saw  him  like  one  suffering  from  the 
effects  of  last  night's  intemperance.  He  appeared  then  clear 
and  unclouded.  He  was  the  eloquent  advocate  of  humanity,  jus- 
tice, and  political  freedom.  From  his  paintings,  virtue  appeared 
more  Idvely,  an4  piety  assumed  a  more  celestial  mien.  While 
his  keen  eye  was  pregnant  with  fancy  and  feeling,  and  his  voice 
attuned  to  the  very  passion  which  he  wished  to  communicate,  it 
would  hardly  have  been  possible  to  conceive  any  being  more 
interesting  and  delightful.  *  *  *  The  men  with  whom  he  gene- 
rally associated,  were  not  of  the  lowest  order.  He  numbered 
among  his  intimate  friends,  many  of  the  most  respectable  inhab- 
itants of  Dumfries  and  the  vicinity.  Several  of  those  were 
attached  to  him  by  ties  that  the  hand  of  calumny,  busy  as  it 
was,  could  never  snap  asunder.  They  admired  the  poet  for  bis 
genius,  and  loved  the  man  for  the  candor,  generosity,  and  kind- 
ness of  his  nature.  His  early  friends  clung  to  him  through 
good  and  bad  report,  with  a  zeal  and  fidelity  that  prove  their 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  151 

disbelief  of  the  malicious  stories  circulated  to  his  disadvantage. 
Among  them  were  some  of  the  most  distinguished  characters  in 
this  country  and  not  a  few  females,  eminent  for  delicacy,  taste, 
and  genius.  They  were  proud  of  his  friendship,  and  cherished 
him  to  the  last  moment  of  his  existence.  He  was  endeared 
to  them  even  by  his  misfortunes,  and  they  still  retain  for  his 
memory  that  affectionate  veneration  which  virtue  alone  inspires." 
Gray  tells  us  too  that  it  came  under  his  own  view  profession- 
ally, that  Burns  superintended  the  education  of  his  children — 
and  promising  children  they  were,  nor  has  that  promise  been 
disappointed— with  a  degree  of  care  that  he  had  never  known  sur- 
passed by  any  parent  whatever ;  that  to  see  him  in  the  happiest 
light  you  had  to  see  him,  as  he  often  did,  in  his  own  house,  and 
that  nothing  could  exceed  the  mutual  affection  between  husband 
and  wife  in  that  lowly  tenement.  Yet  of  this  man,  Josiah 
Walker,  who  claims  to  have  been  his  friend  as  well  as  James 
Gray,  writes,  "  soured  by  disappointment,  and  stung  with  oc- 
casional remorse,  impatient  of  finding  little  to  interest  him  at  home, 
and  rendered  inconstant  from  returns  of  his  hypochondriacal 
ailment,  multiplied  by  his  irregular  life,  he  saw  the  difficulty  of 
keeping  terms  with  the  world  ;■  and  abandoned  the  attempt  in  a 
rash  and  regardless  despair!" 

It  may  be  thought  by  some  that  we  have  referred  too  fre- 
quently to  Walker's  Memoir,  perhaps  that  we  have  spoken  of  it 
with  too  much  asperity,  and  that  so  respectable  a  person  merited 
tenderer  treatment  at  our  hands.  He  was  a  respectable  person, 
and  for  that  very  reason,  we  hope  by  our  strictures  to  set  him 
aside  for  ever  as  a  biographer  of  Burns.  He  had  been  occasion- 
ally in  company  with  the  Poet  in  Edinburgh,  in  1787,  and  had 
seen  him  during  his  short  visit  at  Athol  house.  "  Circumstances 
led  him  to  Scotland  in  November,  1795,  after  an  absence  of  eight 
years,  and  he  felt  strongly  prompted  "  to  visit  his  old  friend  ; 
for  your  common-place  man  immediately  becomes  hand  in  glove 
with  your  man  of  genius,  to  whom  he  has  introduced  himself, 
and  ever  after  the  first  interview  designates  him  by  that  flatter- 
ing appellation  "  my  friend."  "  For  this  purpose  I  went  to 
Dumfries,  and  called  upon  him  earjy  in  the  forenoon.  I  found 
him  in  a  small  house  of  one  story.     He  was  sitting  in  a  win- 


152  THE  GENIUS  AND 

dow-seat  reading  with  the  doors  open,  and  the  family  arrange- 
ments going  on  in  his  presence,  and  altogether  without  that  snug- 
ness  and  seclusion  which  a  student  requires.  After  conversing 
with  him  for  some  time,  he  proposed  a  walk,  and  promised  to 
conduct  me  through  some  of  his  favorite  haunts.  We  accord- 
ingly quitted  the  town,  and  wandered  a  considerable  way  up  the 
beautiful  banks  of  the  Nith.  Here  he  gave  me  an  account  of 
his  latest  productions,  and  repeated  some  satirical  ballads  which 
he  had  composed,  to  favor  one  of  the  Candidates  at  last  elec- 
tion. These  I  thought  inferior  to  his  other  pieces,  though  they 
had  some  lines  in  which  dignity  compensated  for  coarseness. 
He  repeated  also  his  fragment  of  an  Ode  to  Liberty,  with  marked 
and  peculiar  energy,  and  showed  a  disposition  which,  however^ 
was  easily  repressed,  to  throw  out  political  rema!Tks,  of  the  same 
nature  with  those  for  which  he  had  been  reprehended.  On 
finishing  our  walk,  he  passed  some  time  with  me  at  the  inn,  and 
I  left  him  early  in  the  evening,  to  make  another  visit  at  some 
distance  from  Dumfries.  On  the  second  morning  after  I  returned 
with  a  friend — who  was  acquainted  with  the  poet — and  we  found 
him  ready  to  pass  a  part  of  the  day  with  us  at  the  inn.  On  this 
occasion  I  did  not  think  him  qtiite  so  interesting  as  he  had  ap- 
peared at  the  outset.  His  conversation  was  too  elaborate,  and 
his  expression  weakened  by  a  frequent  endeavor  to  give  it  arti- 
ficial strength.  He  had  been  accustomed  to  speak  for  applause 
in  the  circles  which  he  frequented,  and  seemed  to  think  it  ne- 
cessary, in  making  the  most  common  remark,  to  depart  a  little 
from  the  ordinary  simplicity  of  language,  and  to  couch  it  in 
something  of  epigrammatic  point.  In  his  praise  and  censure  he 
was  so  decisive,  as  to  render  a  dissent  from  his  judgment  diffi- 
cult to  be  reconciled  with  the  laws  of  good  breeding.  His  wit 
was  not  more  licentious  than  is  unhappily  too  venial  in  higher 
circles,  though  I  thought  him  rather  unnecessarily  free  in  the 
avowal  of  his  excesses.  Such  were  the  clouds  by  which  the 
pleasures  of  the  evening  were  partially  shaded,  but  coruscations 
of  genius  were  visible  between  them.  When  it  began  to  grow 
late,  he  showed  no  disposition  to  retire,  but  called  for  fresh  sup- 
plies of  liquor  with  a  freedo^i  which  might  be  excusable,  as  we 
were  in   an  inn,  and   no  condition  had  been  distinctly  made. 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  153 


though  it  might  easily  have  been  inferred,  had  the  inference 
been  welcome,  that  he  was  to  consider  himself  as  our  guest ; 
nor  was  it  till  he  saw  us  worn  out,  that  he  departed  about  three 
in  tbe  morning  with  a  reluctance,  which  probably  proceeded 
less  from  being  deprived  of  our  company,  than  from  being  con- 
fined to  his  own.  Upon  the  whole,  I  found  this  last  interview 
not  quite  so  gratifying  as  I  had  expected  ;  although  I  discovered 
in  l)is  conduct  no  errors  which  I  had  not  seen  in  men  who  stand 
higli  in  the  favor  of  society,  or  sufficient  to  account  for  the  mys- 
terious insinuations  which  I  heard  against  his  character.  He  on 
this  occasion  drank  freely  without  being  intoxicated — a  circum- 
stance from  which  I  concluded,  not  only  that  his  constitution 
was  still  unbroken,  but  that  he  was  not  addicted  to  solitary  cor- 
dials ;  for  if  he  had  tasted  liquor  in  the  morning,  he  must  have 
easily  yielded  to  the  excess  of  the  evening.  He  did  not,  bow- 
ever,  always  escape  so  well.  About  two  months  after,  return- 
ing at  the  same  unseasonable  hour  from  a  similar  revel,  in  which 
he  was  probably  better  supported  by  his  companions,  he  was  so 
much  disordered  as  to  occasion  a  considerable  delay  in  getting 
home,  where  he  arrived  with  the  chill  of  cold  without,  and  ine- 
briety within,"  &c. 

■  And  for  this  the  devotee  had  made  vv'hat  is  called  ''  a 
pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  fjenius "  as  far  as  Dumfries ! 
Is  this,  the  spirit  in  which  people  with  strong  propensities 
for  poetry  are  privileged  to  write  of  poets,  long  after  they 
have  been  gathered  to  their  rest  ?  No  tenderness — no  pity — 
no  respect — no  admiration — no  gratitude — no  softening  of  heart 
—no  kindling  of  spirit — on  recollection  of  his  final  farewell  to 
Robert  Burns !  If  the  interview  had  not  been  satisfactory,  he 
was  bound  in  friendship  to  have  left  no  record  of  it.  Silence  in 
that  ca.se  was  a  duty  especially  incumbent  on  him  who  had 
known  Burns  in  happier  timeS;  when  ''  Dukes,  and  Lords,  and 
mighty  Earls"  were  proud  to  receive  the  ploughman.  He 
might  not  know  it  then,  but  he  knew  it  soon  afterwards,  that 
Burns  was  much  broken  down  in  body  and  spirit. 

Those  two  days  should  have  worn  to  him  in  retrospect  a 
mournful  com.plexion  ;  and  the  more  so,  that  he  believed  Burns 
to  have  been  then  a  ruined  man  in  character,  which  he  had  onc.e 


154  THE  GENIUS  AND 


prized  abqye  life.  He  calls  upon  him  early  in  the  forenoon,  and 
finds  him  "  in  a  small  house  of  one  story  (it  happened  to  have 
two),  on  a  window-seat  reading,  with  the  doors  open,  and  the 
family  arrangements  going  on  in  his  presence."  After  eight 
years'  absence  from  Scotland,  did  not  his  heart  leap  at  the  sight 
of  her  greatest  son  sitting  thus  happy  in  his  own  humble  house- 
hold ?  Twenty  years  after,  did  not  his  heart  melt  at  the  rising 
up  of  the  sanctified  image  ?  No — for  the  room  was  "  altogether 
without  that  appearance  of  snugness  and  seclusion  which  a  stu- 
dent requires  !"  The  poet  conducted  him  through  some  of  his 
beautiful  haunts,  and  for  his  amusement  let  off  some  of  his 
electioneering  squibs,  which  are  among  the  very  best  ever 
composed,  and  Whiggish  as  they  are,  might  have  tickled  a 
Tory  as  they  jogged  along ;  but  Jos  thought  theVn  "  inferior 
to  his  other  pieces,"  and  so  no  doubt  they  were  to  the  "Cot- 
tar's Saturday  Night,"  and  "  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled." 
Perhaps  they  walked  as  far  as  Lincluden — and  the  bard  re- 
peated his  famous  fragment  of  an  "  Ode  to  Liberty  " — with 
*' marked  and  peculiar  energy."  The  listener  ought  to  have 
lost  his  wits,  and  to  have  leapt  sky-high.  But  he  who  was 
destined  to  "  The  Defence  of  Order,"  felt  himself  called  by  the 
voice  that  sent  him  on  that  mission,  to  rebuke  the  bard  on 
the  banks  of  his  own  river — for  "  he  showed  a  disposition  which, 
however,  was  easily  repressed,  to  throw  out  political  remarks, 
of  the  same  nature  with  those  for  which  he  had  been  repre- 
hended," three  years  before  by  the  Board  of  Excise!  Mr. 
Walker  was  not  a  Commissioner.  Burns,  it  is  true,  had  been 
told  "  not  to  think ;"  but  here  was  a  favorable  opportunity  for  vio- 
lating with  safety  that  imperial  mandate.  Woods  have  ears, 
but  in  their  whispers  they  betray  no  secrets — had  Burns  talked 
treason,  'twould  have  been  pity  to  stop  his  tongue.  This  world 
is  yet  rather  in  the  dark  as  to  "  the  political  remarks  for  which 
he  had  been  reprehended,"  and  as  he  "  threw  out  some  of  the 
same  nature,"  why  was  the  world  allowed  to  remain  unenlight- 
ened ?  What  right  had  Josiah  Walker  to  repress  any  remarks 
made,  in  the  confidence  of  friendship,  by  Robert  Burns  ?  Ancl 
what  power  ?  Had  Burns  chosen  it,  he  could  as  easily  have 
squahashed  Josiah  as  thrown  him  into  the  Nith.     He  was  not  to 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  155 

be  put  down  by  fifty  such  ;  he  may  have  refrained,  but  he  was 
not  repressed,  and  in  courtesy  to  his  companion,  treated  him 
with  an  old  wife's  song. 

The  record  of  the  second  day  is  shameful.  To  ask  any  per. 
son,  however  insignificant,  to  your  inn,  and  then  find  fault  with 
him  in  a  private  letter  for  keeping  you  out  of  bed,  would  not  be 
gentlemanly ;  but  of  such  an  offence  twenty  years  after  his  death 
publicly  to  accuse  Burns  !  No  mention  is  made  of  dinner — and 
we  shrewdly  suspect  Burns  dined  at  home.  However,  he  gave 
up  two  days  to  the  service  of  his  friend,  and  his  friend's  friend, 
and  such  was  his  reward.  Why  did  not  this  dignified  personage 
"repress"  Burns's  licentious  wit  as  well  as  his  political  opi- 
nions ?  If  it  was  "  not  more  licentious  than  is  unhappily  too  ve- 
nial in  higher  circles,"  why  mention  it  at  all  ?  What  were  "  the 
excesses "  of  which  he  was  unnecessarily  free  in  the  avowal  ? 
They  could  not  have  regarded  unlawful  intercourse  with  the 
sex — for  "  they  were  not  sufficient  to  account  for  the  mysterious 
insinuations  against  his  character,"  all  of  which  related  to  wo- 
men. Yet  this  wretched  mixture  of  meanness,  worldliness,  and 
morality,  interlarded  with  some  liberal  sentiment,  and  spiced  with 
spite,  absolutely  seems  intended  for  a  vindication ! 

There  are  generally  two  ways  at  least  of  telling  the  same 
story ;  and  'tis  pity  we  have  not  Burns's  own  account  of  that  long 
sederunt.  It  is  clear  that  before  midnight  he  had  made  the  dis- 
covery that  his  right  and  his  left  hand  assessor  were  a  couple  of 
solemn  blockheads,  and  that  to  relieve  the  tedium,  he  kept  ply.- 
ing  them  with  all  manner  of  hams.  Both  gentlemen  were  proba- 
bly in  black,  and  though  laymen,  decorous  as  deacons  on  reli- 
gion and  morality — and  defenders  of  the  faith — sententious  cham- 
pions of  Church  and  State.  It  must  have  been  amusing  to  see 
them  gape.  Nobody  ever  denied  that  Burns  always  conducted 
himself  with  the  utmost  propriety  in  presence  of  those  whom  he 
respected  for  their  genius,  their  learning,  or  their  worth.  With- 
out sacrificing  an  atom  of  his  independence,  how  deferential, 
nay,  how  reverential  was  he  in  his  behavior  to  Dugald  Stewart ! 
Had  he  and  Dr.  Blair  entertained  Burns  as  their  guest  in  that 
inn,  how  delightful  had  been  the  evening's  record !  No  such 
"  licentious  wit  as  is  unhappily  too  venial  in  higher  circles," 


156  THE  GENIUS  AND 

would  iiave  flowed  from  his  lips — no  "  unnecessarily  free  avowal 
of  his  excesses."  He  would  have  delighted  the  philosopher  and 
the  divine  with  his  noble  sentiments  as  he  had  done  of  old — the 
illustrious  Professor  would  have  remembered  and  heard  again 
tile  beautiful  eloquence  that  charmed  him  on  the  Braid-hills. 
There  can  be  nothing  unfair  surely, -in  the  conjecture,  that  these 
gentlemen  occasionally  contributed  a  sentence  or  two  to  the  stock 
of  conversation.  They  were  enieriaining  Burns,  and  good  man- 
ners must  have  induced  them  now  and  then  "  here  to  interpose  *' 
with  a  small  smart  remark — sentiment  facete — or  unctuous  an- 
ecdote.  Having  lived  in  "  higher  circles,"  and  heard  much  of 
the  "  licentious  wit  unhappily  too  venial  there,"  we  do  not  well 
see  how  they  could  have  avoided  giving  their  guest  a  few  speci- 
mens of  it.  Grave  men  are  often  gross — and  they  were  both 
grave  as  ever  was  earthenware.  Such  wit  is  the  most  conta- 
gious of  any ;  and  "  budge  doctors  of  the  Stoic  fur  "  then  ex- 
press '•  Fancies "  that  are  anything  but  "Chaste  and  Noble." 
Who  knows  but  that  they  were  driven  into  indecency  by  the  des- 
peration of  self-defence — took  refuge  in  repartee — and  fought 
the  gauger  with  his  own  rod  ?  That  Burns,  in  the  dead  silence 
that  ever  and  anon  occurred,  should  have  called  for  "  fresh  sup- 
plies of  liquor,"  is  nothing  extraordinary.  For  there  is  not  in 
nature  or  in  art  a  sadder  spectacle  than  an  empty  bottle 
standing  in  the  centre  of  a  circle,  equi<listant  from  three 
friends,  one  of  whom  had  returned  to  his  native  land  after  a 
yearning  absence  of  eight  years,  another  anonymous,  and  the 
third  the  author  of  Scotch  Drink  and  the  Earnest  Cry.  Josiah 
more  than  insinuates  that  he  himself  shy'd  the  bottle.  We  more 
than  doubt  it — we  believe  that  for  some  hours  he  turned  up  his 
little  finger  as  frequently  as  Burns.  He  did  right  to  desist  as 
soon  as  he  had  got  his  dose,  and  of  that  he  was  not  only  the  best 
but  the  only  judge ;  he  appears  to  have  been  sewn  up  "  M'hen  it 
began  to  grow  late  ;"  Burns  was  sober  as  a  lark  "  about  three 
in  the  morning."  It  is  likely  enough  that  "  about  two  months 
after,  Burns  was  better  supported  by  his  companions  at  a  similar 
revel" — so  much  better  indeed  in  every  way  that  the  revel  was 
dissimilar;  but  still  we  cling  to  our  first  belief,  that  the  two 
gentlemen  •  in  black  drank  as  much  as  could  have  been  rea- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  157 

sonably  expected  of  them — that  is,  as  much  as  they  could  hold — 
had  they  attempted  more,  there  is  no  saying  what  might  have 
been  the  consequences.  And  we  still  continue  to  think,  too,  that 
none  but  a  heartless  man,  or  a  man  whose  heart*had  been  puffed 
up  like  a  bladder  with  vanity,  would  have  tagged  to  the  tail  of 
his  pitiful  tale  of  that  night,  that  cruel  statement  of  "  cold  with- 
out, and  inebriety  within,"  which  was  but  the  tittle-tattle  ofgos- 
sipping  tradition,  and  most  probably  a  lie. 

This  is  the  proper  way  to  treat  all  such  meinorahilia — with  the 
ridicule  of  contempt  and  scorn.  Refute  falsehood  first,  and  then 
lash  the  fools  that  utter  it.  Much  of  the  obloquy  that  so  long 
i-ested  on  the  memory  of  our  great  National  Poet  originated  in 
frivolous  hearsays  of  his  life  and  conversation,  wliich  in  every 
telling  lost  some  portion  of  whatever  truth  might  have  belonged 
to  them,  and  acquired  at  least  an  equal  portion  of  falsehood,  till 
they  became  unmixed  calumnies — many  of  them  of  the  blackest 
kind — got  into  print,  which  is  implicitly  believed  by  the  million — 
till  the  simple  story,  which,  as  first  told,  had  illustrated  some  in- 
teresting^ trait  of' his  character  or  genius,  as  last  told,  redounded 
to  his  disgrace,  and  was  listened  to  by  the  totally  abstinent  with 
uplifted  eyes,  hands,  and  shoulders,  as  an  anecdote  of  the  dread- 
ful debaucheries  of  Robert  Burns. 

That  he  did  sometimes  associate,  while  in  Edinburgh,  with 
persons  not  altogether  worthy  of  him,  need  not  be  denied,  nor 
v/ondered  at,  for  it  was  inevitable.  Me  was  not  for  ever  beset 
with  the  consciousness  of  his  own  supereminence.  Prudence 
he  did  not  despise,  and  he  has  said  some  strong  things  in  her 
praise  ;  but  she  was  not,  in  his  system  of  morality,  the  Queen 
of  Virtues.  His  genius,  so  far  from  separating  him  from  any 
portion  of  his  kind,  impelled  him  towards  humanity,  without 
fear  and  without  suspicion.  No  saint  or  prude  was  he  to  shun 
the  society  of  "Jolly  companions  everyone."  Though  never 
addicted  to  drinking,  he  had  often  set  the  table  in  a  roar  at 
Tarbolton,  Mauchline,  Kirl^oswald,  Irvine  and  Ayr,  and  was  he 
all  at  once  to  appear  in  the  character  of  dry  Quaker  in  Edin- 
burgh 1  Were  the  joys  that  circle  round  the  flowing  bowl  to 
be  interdicted  to  him  alone,  the  wittiest,  the  brightest,  the  most 
original,  and  the  most  eloquent  of  all  the  men  of  his  day  ?     At 


1'8  THE  GENIUS  AND 


Ellisland  we  know  for  certain,  that  liis  domestic  life  was  tem- 
perate and  sober  ;  and  that  beyond  his  own  doors,  his  conviviali- 
ties among  "  gentle  and  semple,"  though  not  unfrequent  were 
not  excessive,  and  left  his  character  v/ithout  any  of  those  deeper 
stains  with  which  it  has  been  since  said  to  have  been  sullied.  It 
is  for  ever  to  be  lamented  that  he  was  more  dissipated  at  Dum- 
fries— how  mucli  more — and  under  what  stronger  temptations, 
can  be  told  in  not  many  words.  But  every  glass  of  wine  "or 
stouter  cheer"  he  drank— ^like  mere  ordinary  men  too  fond  of 
the  festive  hour^seems  to  have  been  set  down  against  him  as  a 
separate  sin  ;  and  the  world  of  fashion,  and  of  philosophy  too, 
we  fear,  both  of  which  used  him  rather  scurvily  at  last,  would 
not  be  satisfied  unless  Burns  could  be  made  out — a  drunkard  ! 
Had  he  not  been  such  a  wonderful  man  in  conversation,  he 
might  have  enjoyed  unhurt  the  fame  of  his  poetry.  But  what 
was  reading  his  poetry,  full  as  it  is  of  mirth  and  pathos,  to 
hearing  the  Poet !  When  all  were  desirous  of  the  company  of 
a  man  of  such  genius  and  such  dispositions,  was  it  in  human 
nature  Vo  be  always  judicious  in  the  selection  or  rejection  of 
associates  ?  His  deepest  and  best  feelings  he  for  the  most  part 
kept  sacred  for  communion  with  those  who  were  held  by  him  in 
honor  as  well  as  love.  But  few  were  utterly  excluded  from  the 
cordiality  of  one  who,  in  the  largeness  of  his  heart,  could  sym- 
pathize with  all,  provided  he  could  but  bring  out  by  tlie  stroke 
of  the  keen-tempered  steel  of  his  own  nature,  some  latent  spark 
of  humanity  from  the  flint  of  theirs  ;  and  it  is  easy  to  see  with 
what  dangers  he  thus  must  have  been  surrounded,  when  his 
genius  and  humor,  his  mirth  and  glee,  his  fun  and  frolic,  and  all 
the  outrageous  merriment  of  his  exhilarated  or  maddened  imagi- 
nation -came  to  be  considered  almost  as  common  property  by  all 
who  chose  to  introduce  themselves  to  Robert  Burns,  and  thought  • 
themselves  entitled  to  do  so  because  they  could  prove  they  had 
his  poems  by  heart.  They  sent  for  the  ganger,  and  the  ganger 
came.  A  prouder  man  breathed  not,  but  he  had  never  been 
subjected  to  the  ceremonial  of  manners,  the  rule  of  artificial 
life  ;  and  he  was  ready,  at  all  times,  to  grasp  the  hand  held  out 
in  friendship,  to  go  when  a  message  said  come,  for  he  knew 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  159 


that  his  "  low-roof'd  house"  was  honored  because  by  his  genius 
he  had  greatly  glorified  his  people. 

We  have  seen,  from  one  characteristic  instance,  how  shame- 
fully his  condescension  must  often  have  been  abused  ;  and  no 
doubt  but  that  sometimes  he  behaved  imprudently  in  such  par- 
ties, and  incurred  the  blame  of  intemperance.  Frequently 
must  he  have  joined  them  with  a  heavy  heart !  How  little  did 
many  not  among  the  worst  of  those  who  stupidly  stared  at  the 
"wondrous  guest"  understand  of  his  real  character!  How 
often  must  the*y  have  required  mirth  from  him  in  his  melan- 
choly, delight  in  his  despair !  The  coarse  buffoon  ambitious  to 
show  off  before  the  author  of  "  Tarn  o'  Shanter "  and  "  The 
Holy  Friar  " — how  could  it  enter  into  his  fat  heart  to  conceive, 
in  the  midst  of  his  own  roaring  ribaldry,  that  the  fire-eyed  son 
of  genius  was  a  hypochondriac,  sick  of  life  !  Why  such  a 
fellow  would  think  nothing  next  morning  of  impudently  telling 
his  cronies  that  on  the  whole  he  had  been  disappointed  in  the 
Poet.  Or  in  another  key,  forgetting  that  the  Poet  who  continued 
to  sit  late  at  a  tavern  table,  need  own  no  relationship  but  that 
of  time  and  place  with  the  proser  who  was  lying  resignedly 
under  it,  the  drunkard  boasts  all  over  the  city  of  the  glorious 


night  he  had  had  with  Burns. 


But  of  the  multitudes  who  thus  sought  the  society  of  Burns, 
there  must  have  been  many  in  every  way  qualified  to  enjoy  it. 
His  fame  had  crossed  the  Tweed ;  and  though  a  knowledge  of 
his  poetry  could  not  then  have  been  prevalent  over  England,  he 
had  ardent  admirers  among  the  most  cultivated  classes,  before 
whose  eyes,  shadowed  in  a  language  but  imperfectly  under- 
stood, had  dawned  a  new  and  beautiful  world  of  rustic  life. 
Young  men  of  generous  birth,  and  among  such  lovers  of  genius 
some  doubtless  themselves  endowed  with  the  precious  gift, 
acquainted  with  the  clod-hoppers  of  their  own  country,  longed 
to  behold  the  prodigy  who  had  stalked  between  the  stilts  of  the 
plough  in  moods  of  tenderest  or  loftiest  inspiration ;  and  it  is 
pleasing  to  think  that  the  poet  v/as  not  seldom  made  happy  by 
such  visitors — that  they  carried  back  with  them  to  their  own 
noblest  land  a  still  deeper  impression  of  the  exalted  worth  of  the 
genius  of  Caledonia.     Nor  did  the  gold  coin  of  the  genius  of 


160  FHE  GENIUS  AND 


Burns  sustain  any  depreciation  during  his  lifetime  in  his  own 
country.  He  had  that  to  comfort  him — that  to  glory  in  till  the 
last ;  and  in  his  sorest  poverty,  it  must  have  been  his  exceeding 
great  reward.  Ebenezer  Elliot  has  nobly  expressed  that  belief 
— and  coupled  with  it — as  we  have  often  done — the  best  vindi- 
cation of  Scotland — 

"  But  shall  it  of  our  sires  be  told 

That  they  their  brother  poor  forsook  ? 
no  !  for  they  gave  him  more  than  gold  ; 
They  read  the  Brave  Man's  Book." 

What  happens  during  their  life,  more  or  less,  to  all  eminent 
men,  happened  to  Burns.     Thinking  on  such  things,  one  some- 
times cannot  help  believing  that  man  hates  to  honor  man,  till 
the  power  in  which  miracles  have  been  wrought  is  extinguished 
or  withdrawn  ;  and  then,  when  jealousy,  envy,  and  all  unchari- 
tableness  of  necessity  cease,  we  confess  its  grandeur,  bow  down 
to  it,  and  worship  it.     But  who   were  they   who  in   his  own 
country  continued  most  steadfastly  to  honor  his  genius  and  him- 
self, all  through  what  have  been  called,  truly  in  some  respects, 
falsely  in  others,   his  dark  days  in   Dumfries,   and  on  to  his 
death  ?     Not  Lords  and  Earls,  not  lawyers  and  wits,  not  philo- 
sophers and  doctors,  though   among    the  nobility  and  gentry, 
among  the  classes  of  leisure  and  of  learning,  he  had  friends 
who  wished  him  well,  and  were  not  indisposed  to  serve  him  ; 
not  the  male  generation  of  critics,  not  the  literary  prigs  epicene, 
not  of  decided  sex  the  blues  celestial,   though   many    periods 
were  rounded  among  them  upon  the  Ayrshire  ploughman ;  but 
the  Men  of  his  own  Order,  with  their  wives  and  daughters — 
shepherds,  and  herdsmen,  and  ploughmen,  delvers  and  ditchers, 
hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of   water,  soldiers  and   sailors, 
whether  regulars,  militia,  fencibles,  volunteers,  on  board  king's 
or  merchant's  ship  "  far,  far  at  sea"  or  dirt  gabbert — within  a 
few  yards  of  the  land  on  either  side  of  the  Clyde  or  the  Cart — 
the  Working  People,   whatever  the  instruments  of  their  toil, 
they  patronized  Burns  then,  they  patronize  him  now,  they  would 
not  have   hurt  a  hair  of  his  head,  they  will  not  hear  of  any 
dishonor  to  his  dust,  they  know  well  what  it  is  to  endure,  to 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  161 

yield,  to  enjoy,  and  to  suffer,  and  the  memory  of  their  own  bard 
will  be  hallowed  for  ever  among  the  brotherhood  like  a  religion. 
In  Dumfries — as  in  every  other  considerable  town  in  Scotland 
— and  we  might  add  England — it  was  then  customary,  you  know, 
with  the  respectable  inhabitants,  to  pass  a  convivial  hour  or  two 
of  an  evening  in  some  decent  tavern  or  other — and  Burns's  howf 
was  the  Globe,  kept  by  honest  Mrs.  Hyslop,  who  had  a  sonsie 
sister,  "  Anna  wi'  the  gowden  locks,"  the  heroine  of  what  in  his 
fond  deceit  he  thought  was  the  best  of  all  his  songs.  The 
worthy  towns-folk  did  not  frequent  bar,  or  parlor,  or  club-room — 
at  least  they  did  not  think  they  did — from  a  desire  for  drink ; 
though  doubtless  they  often  took  a  glass  more  than  they  intend- 
ed, nay,  sometimes  even  two ;  and  the  prevalence  of  such  a 
system  of  social  life,  for  it  was  no  less,  must  have  given  rise, 
with  others  besides  the  predisposed,  to  very  hurtful  habits. 
They  met  to  expatiate  and  confer  on  state  affairs — to  read  the 
newspapers — to  talk  a  little  scandal — and  so  forth — and  the 
result  was,  we  have  been  told,  considerable  dissipation.  The 
system  was  not  excellent ;  dangerous  to  a  man  whose  face  was 
always  more  than  welcome  ;  without  whom  there  was  wanting 
the  evening  or  the  morning  star.  Burns  latterly  indulged  too 
much  in  such  compotations,  and  sometimes  drank  more  than  was 
good  for  him ;  hut  not  a  man  no2v  alive  in  Dumfries  ever  saw  him 
intoxicated;  and  the  survivors  all  unite  in  declaring  that  he 
cared  not  whether  the  stoup  were  full  or  empty,  so  that  there 
were  conversation — argumentative  or  declamatory,  narrative  or 
anecdotal,  grave  or  gay,  satirical  or  sermonic  ;  nor  would  any 
of  them  have  hoped  to  see  the  sun  rise  again  in  this  world,  had 
Burns  portentously  fallen  asleep.  They  had  much  better  been, 
one  and  all  of  them,  even  on  the  soberest  nights,  at  their  own 
firesides,  or  in  their  beds,  and  orgies  that  seemed  moderation 
itself  in  a  howf,  would  have  been  felt  outrageous  in  sThome.  But 
the  blame,  whatever  be  its  amount,  must  not  be  heaped  on  the  head 
of  Burns,  while  not  a  syllable  has  ever  been  said  of  the  same 
enormities  steadily  practised  for  a  series  of  years  by  the  digni- 
taries of  the  borough,  who  by  themselves  and  friends  were 
opined  to  have  been  from  youth  upwards  among  the  most  sober 
of  the  children  of  Adam.  Does  anybody  suppose  that  Burns 
12 


162  THE  GENIUS  AND 


would  have  addicted  himself  to  any  meetings  considered  dis- 
reputable— or  that,  had  he  lived  now,  he  would  have  frequented 
any  tavern,  except,  perhaps,  some  not  unfavored  one  in  the  airy 
realms  of  imagination,  and  built  among  the  clouds? 

Malicious  people  would  not  have  ventured  during  his  lifetime, 
in  underhand  and  undertoned  insinuations,  to  whisper  away 
Burns's  moral  character,  nor  would  certain  memorialists  have 
been  so  lavish  of  their  lamentations  and  regrets  over  his  evil 
habits,  had  not  his  political  principles  during  his  later  years  been 
such  as  to  render  him  with  many  an  object  of  suspicion  equiva- 
lent, in  troubled  times,  to  fear  and  hatred.  A  revolution  that 
shook  the  foundations  on  which  so  many  old  evils  and  abuses 
rested,  and  promised  to  restore  to  millions  their  natural  liberties, 
and  by  that  restoration  to  benefit  all  mankind,  must  have  agitat- 
ed his  imagination  to  a  pitch  of  enthusiasm  far  beyond  the  reach 
of  ordinary  minds  to  conceive,  who  nevertheless  thought  it  no 
presumption  on  their  part  to  decide  dogmatically  on  the  highest 
questions  in  political  science,  the  solution  of  which,  issuing  in 
terrible  practice,  had  upset  one  of  the  most  ancient,  and  as  it 
had  been  thought,  one  of  the  firmest  of  thrones.  No  wonder  that 
with  his  eager  and  earnest  spirit  for  ever  on  his  lips,  he  came  to 
be  reputed  a  Democrat.  Dumfries  was  a  Tory  Town,  and 
could  not  tolerate  a  revolutionary — the  term  was  not  in  use  then 
— a  Radical  Exciseman.  And  to  say  the  truth,  the  idea  must 
have  been  not  a  little  alarming  to  weak  nerves,  of  Burns  as  a 
demagogue.  With  such  eyes  and  such  a  tongue  he  would  have 
proved  a  formidable  Man  of  the  People.  It  is  certain  that  he 
spoke  and  wrote  rashly  and  reprehensibly — and  deserved  a  cau- 
tion from  the  Board.  But  not  such  tyrannical  reproof;  and 
perhaps  it  was  about  as  absurd  in  the  Board  to  order  Burns  not 
to  think,  as  it  would  have  been  in  him  to  order  it  to  think,  for 
thinking  comes  of  nature,  and  not  of  institution,  and  'tis  about 
as  difficult  to  control  as  to  create  it.  He  defended  himself  bold- 
ly, and  like  a  man  conscious  of  harboring  in  his  bosom  no  evil 
wish  to  the  State.  "  In  my  defence  to  their  accusations  I  said, 
that  whatever  might  be  my  sentiments  of  republics,  ancient  or 
modem,  as  to  Britain  I  abjured  the  idea ;  that  a  constitution, 
which  in  its  original  principles,  experience  had  proved  to  be  in 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  163 

every  way  fitted  for  our  happiness  in  society,  it  would  be  insanity 
to  sacrifice  to  an  untried  visionary  theory  ; — that  in  considera- 
tion of  my  being  situated  in  a  department,  however  humble,  im- 
mediately in  the  hands  of  people  in  power,  I  had  forborne  taking 
an  active  part,  either  personally,  or  as  an  author,  in  the  pre- 
sent business  of  reform  ;  but  that  when  I  must  declare  my  sen- 
timents, I  would  say  there  existed  a  system  of  corruption  be- 
tween the  executive  power  and  the  representative  part  of  the 
legislature  which  boded  no  good  to  our  glorious  constitution, 
and  which  every  patriotic  Briton  must  wish  to  see  amended." 
His  biographers  have  had  difficulty  in  forming  their  opinion  as 
to  the  effect  on  Burns's  mind  of  the  expression  of  the  Board's 
sovereign  will  and  displeasure.  Scott,  without  due  considera- 
tion, thought  it  so  preyed  on  his  peace  as  to  render  him  desperate 
— and  has  said  "  that  from  the  moment  his  hopes  of  promotion 
were  utterly  blasted,  his  tendency  to  dissipation  hurried  him  pre- 
cipitately into  those  excesses  which  shortened  his  life."  Lock- 
hart,  on  the  authority  of  Mr.  Findlater,  dissents  from  that  state- 
ment ;  Allan  Cuninghame  thinks  it  in  essentials  true,  and  that 
Burns's  letter  to  Erskine  of  Mar,  "  covers  the  Board  of  Excise 
and  the  British  Government  of  that  day  with  eternal  shame." 
Whatever  may  have  been  the  effect  of  those  proceedings  on 
Burns's  mind,  it  is  certain  that  the  freedom  with  which  he 
gave  utterance  to  his  political  opinions  and  sentiments  seriously 
injured  him  in  the  estimation  of  multitudes  of  excellent  people 
who  thought  them  akin  to  doctrines  subversive  of  all  government 
but  that  of  the  mob.  Nor  till  he  joined  the  Dumfries  Volunteers, 
and  as  their  Laureate  issued  his  popular  song,  that  flew  over  the 
land  like  wild-fire,  "Does  haughty  Gaul  invasion  threat?"  was 
he  generally  regarded  as  a  loyal  subject.  For  two  or  three 
years  he  had  been  looked  on  with  evil  eyes,  and  spoken  of  in 
evil  whispers  by  too  many  of  the  good,  and  he  had  himself  in 
no  small  measure  to  blame  for  their  false  judgment  of  his  charac- 
ter.    Here  are  a  few  of  his  lines  to  "  The  Tree  of  Liberty  :" 

"  But  vicious  folk  aye  hate  to  see 
The  works  of  virtue  thrive,  man  ; 
The  courtly  vermin  bann'd  the  tree, 
And  grat  to  see  it  thrive,  man. 


164  THE  GENIUS  AND 


King  Louis  thought,  to  cut  it  down, 

When  it  was  unco  sma',  man ; 
For  this  the  watchman  crack'd  his  crown. 

Cut  aff  his  head  and  a',  man. 

•*  Let  Britain  boast  her  hardy  oak, 

Her  poplar  and  her  pine,  man, 
Auld  Britain  ance  could  crack  her  joke. 

And  o'er  her  neighbor  shine,  man. 
But  seek  the  forest  round  and  round. 

And  soon  't  will  be  agreed,  man,  « 

That  sic  a  tree  cannot  be  found 

'Twixt  London  and  the  Tweed,  man. 

"  Wae  worth  the  loon  wha  woudna  eat 

Sic  wholesome  dainty  cheer,  man ; 
I'd  sell  my  shoon  frae  afF  my  feet 

To  taste  sic  fruit  I  swear,  man. 
Syne  let  us  pray,  auld  England  may 

Soon  plant  this  far-fam'd  tree,  man  ; 
And  blithe  we'll  sing,  and  hail  the  day 

That  gave  us  liberty,  man." 

So  sunk  in  slavery  at  this  time  was  Scotland,  that  England  could 
not  sleep  in  her  bed  till  she  had  set  her  sister  free — and  sent 
down  some  liberators  who  narrowly  escaped  getting  hanged  by 
this  most  ungrateful  country.  Such  "  perilous  stuff"  as  the 
above  might  have  been  indited  by  Palmer,  Gerald,  or  Marga- 
ret— how  all  unworthy  of  the  noble  Burns  ?  Of  all  men  then 
in  the  world,  the  author  of  "  The  Cottar's  Saturday  Night "  was 
by  nature  the  least  of  a  Jacobin.  We  cannot  help  thinking  that, 
like  Byron,  he  loved  at  times  to  astonish  dull  people  by  daring 
things,  to  see  how  they  looked  with  their  hair  on  end  ;  and  dull 
people — who  are  not  seldom  malignant — taking  him  at  his  word, 
had  their  revenge  in  charging  him  with  all  manner  of  profligacy, 
and  fabricating  vile  stories  to  his  disgrace  ;  there  being  nothing 
too  gross  for  the  swallow  of  political  rancor. 

It  is  proved  by  many  very  strong  expressions  in  his  corre- 
spondence— that  the  reproof  he  received  from  the  Board  of  Ex- 
cise sorely  troubled  him  ;  and  no  doubt  it  had  an  evil  influence 
on  public  opinion  that  did  not  subside  till  it  was  feared  he  was 
dying,  and  that  ceased  for  a  time  only  with  his  death.     We  have 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  165 

expressed  our  indignation — our  contempt  of  that  tyrannical 
treatment ;  and  have  not  withheld  our  respect — our  admiration 
from  the  characteristic  manliness  with  which  he  repelled  the  ac- 
cusations some  insidious  enemies  had  secretly  sent  in  to  the 
quarter  where  they  knew  fatal  injury  might  be  done  to  all  his 
prospects  in  life.  But  was  it  possible  that  his  most  unguarded, 
rash,  and  we  do  not  for  a  moment  hesitate  to  say,  blameable  ex- 
pression of  political  opinions  adverse  to  those  maintained  by  all 
men  friendly  to  the  government,  could  be  permitted  to  pass 
without  notice  ?  He  had  no  right  to  encourage  what  the  gov- 
ernment sought  to  put  down,  while  he  was  "  their  servant  in 
a  very  humble  department ;"  and  though  he  successfully  repelled 
the  slanders  of  the  despicable  creatures  who  strove  to  destroy 
him,  even  in  his  high-spirited  letter  to  Erskine  there  is  enough 
to  show  that  he  had  entered  into  such  an  expostulation  with  the 
Board  as  must  have  excited  strong  displeasure  and  disapproval, 
which  no  person  of  sense,  looking  back  on  those  most  dangerous 
times,  can  either  wonder  at  or  blame.  He  says  in  his  defence 
before  the  Board,  "  I  stated  that,  where  I  must  declare  my  sen- 
timents, I  would  say  there  existed  a  system  of  corruption  be- 
tween the  executive  power  and  the  representative  part  of  the 
legislature,  which  boded  no  good  to  our  glorious  constitution, 
and  which  every  patriotic  Briton  must  wish  to  see  amended." 
From  a  person  in  his  situation  even  such  a  declaration  was  not 
prudent,  and  prudence  was  a  duty ;  but  it  is  manifest  from  what 
he  adds  for  Erskine's  own  ear,  that  something  more  lay  con- 
cealed in  those  generalities  than  the  mere  words  seem  to  imply. 
"  I  have  three  sons,  who  I  see  already  have  brought  into  the 
world  souls  ill  qualified  to  inhabit  the  bodies  of  Slaves.  Can 
I  look  tamely  on,  and  see  any  machinations  to  wrest  from  them 
the  birthright  of  my  boys — the  little  independent  Britons,  in 
■whose  veins  runs  my  blood  ?  No  ;  I  will  not,  should  my  heart's 
blood  stream  around  my  attempt  to  defend  it.  Does  any  man 
tell,  me,  that  my  poor  efforts  can  be  of  no  service,  and  that  it 
does  not  belong  to  my  humble  station  to  meddle  with  the  con- 
cerns of  a  nation  V  Right  or  wrong — and  we  think  they  were 
right — the  government  of  the  country  had  resolved  to  uphold 
principles,  to  which  the  man  who  could  not  refrain  from  thus 


166  THE  GENIUS  AND 


fiercely  declaring  himself,  at  the  very  time  all  that  was  dearest 
to  him  was  in  peril,  could  not  but  be  held  hostile ;  and  so  far 
from  its  being  their  duty  to  overlook  such  opinions,  because  they 
were  the  opinions  of  Burns,  it  was  just  because  they  were  the 
opinions  of  Burns  that  it  was  their  duty  to  restrain  and  reprove 
them.  He  continued  too  long  after  this  to  be  by  far  too  out- 
spoken— as  we  have  seen;  but  that  his  Scottish  soul  had  in 
aught  become  Frenchified,  we  never  shall  believe,  but  while  we 
live  shall  attribute  the  obstinacy  with  which  he  persisted  to 
sing  and  say  the  praises  of  that  people,  after  they  had  murdered 
their  King  and  their  Queen,  and  had  been  guilty  of  all  enormi- . 
ties,  in  a  great  measure  to  a  haughtiness  that  could  not  brook 
to  retract  opinions  he  had  offensively  declared  before  the  faces 
of  many  whom  not  without  reason  he  despised — to  a  horror  of 
the  idea  of  any  sacrifice  of  that  independent  spirit  which  was 
the  very  life  of  his  life.  Burns  had  been  insulted  by  those  who 
were  at  once  his  superiors  and  his  inferiors,  and  shall  Burns 
truckle  to  "  the  powers  that  be  ?"  At  any  bidding  but  that  of 
his  own  conviction  swerve  a  hair's-breadth  from  his  political 
creed  ?  No  :  not  even  though  his  reason  had  told  him  that  some, 
of  its  articles  were  based  in  delusion,  and  if  carried  into  prac- 
tice among  his  own  countrymen,  pursuant  to  the  plots  of  traitors, 
who  were  indeed  aliens  in  soul  to  the  land  he  loved,  would  have 
led  to  the  destruction  of  that  liberty  for  which  he,  by  the  side 
or  at  the  head  of  his  cottage  compatriots,  would  have  gladly 
died. 

The  evil  consequences  of  all  this  to  Burns  were  worse  than 
you  may  have  imagined,  for  over  and  above  the  lies  springing  up 
like  puddock-stools  from  domestic  middens,  an  ephemeral  brood 
indeed,  but  by  succession  perennial,  and  that  even  now  when  you 
grasp  them  in  your  hand,  spatter  vileness  in  your  eyes,  like  so 
many  devil's  snuff-boxes — think  how  injurious  to  the  happiness 
of  such  a  soul  as  his,io  all  its  natural  iiabitudes,  must  have  been 
the  feuds  carried  on  all  around  him,  and  in  which  he  with  his 
commanding  powers  too  largely  mingled,  between  political  par- 
ties in  a  provincial  town,  contending  as  they  thought,  the  one  for 
hearths  and  altars,  the  other  for  regeneration  of  those  principles, 
decayed  or  dead,  which  alone  make  hearths  and  altars  sacred, 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  167 


and  their  defence  worth  the  tears  and  the  blood  of  brave  men 
who  would  fain  be  free.  His  sympathy  was  "  wide  and  general 
as  the  casing  air;"  and  not  without  violence  could  it  be  con- 
tracted "within  the  circle  none  dared  tread  but  they,"  who 
thought  William  Pitt  the  reproach,  and  Charles  Fox  the  Paragon 
of  Animals.  Within  that  circle  he  met  with  many  good  men, 
the  Herons,  Millers,  Riddells,  Maxwells,  Symes,  and  so  forth ; 
within  it  too  he  forgathered  with  many  "a  fool  and  something 
more."  Now  up  to  "  the  golden  exhalation  of  the  dawn  "  of  his 
gaiigership.  Burns  had  been  a  Tory,  and  he  heard  in  "  the  whis- 
per of  a  faction  "  a  word  unpleasing  to  a  Whiggish  ear,  turncoat. 
The  charge  was  false,  and  he  disdained  it ;  but  disdain  in  eyes 
that  when  kindled  up  burned  like  carriage  lamps  in  a  dark  night, 
frightened  the  whispering  faction  into  such  animosity,  that  a  more 
than  usual  sumph  produced  an  avenging  epigram  upon  him  and 
two  other  traitors,  in  which  the  artist  committed  a  mistake  of 
workmanship  no  subsequent  care  could  rectify  :  instead  of  hit- 
ting the  right  nail  on  the  head,  why  he  hit  the  wrong  nail  on  the 
point,  so  no  wooden  mallet  could  drive  it  home.  From  how 
much  social  pleasure  must  not  Burns  have  thus  been  wilfully 
self-debarred  !  From  how  many  happy  friendships  !  By  nature 
he  was  not  vindictive,  yet  occasionally  he  seemed  to  be  so,  visit- 
ing slight  offence  with  severe  punishment,  sometimes  imagining 
offence  when  there  was  none,  and  in  a  few  instances,  we  fear, 
satirizing  in  savage  verses  not  only  the  innocent,  but  the  virtu- 
ous ;  the  very  beings  whom,  had  he  but  known  them  as  he  might, 
he  would  have  loved  and  revered — celebrated  them  living  or 
dead  in  odes,  elegies,  and  hymns — thereby  doing  holy  service  to 
goodness  in  holding  up  shining  examples  to  all  who  longed  to  do 
well.  Most  of  his  intolerant  scorn  of  high  rank  had  the  same 
origin — not  in  his  own  nature,  which  was  noble,  but  in  prejudi- 
ces thus  superinduced  upon  it  which  in  their  virulence  were 
mean — though  his  genius  could  clothe  them  in  magnificent  dic- 
tion, and  so  justify  them  to  the  proud  poet's  heart. 

It  is  seldom  indeed  thatLockhart  misses  the  mark  ;  but  in  one 
instance — an  anecdote — where  it  is  intended  to  present  the  pa- 
thetic, our  eyes  perceive  but  the  picturesque — we  allude  to  the 
tale  told  him  by  Davie  Macculloch,  son  of  the  Laird  of  Ardwall. 


168  THE  GENIUS  AND 


"  He  told  me  that  he  was  seldom  more  grieved  than  when, 
riding  into  Dumfries  one  fine  summer's  evening  to  attend  a 
county  ball,  he  saw  Burns  walking  alone  on  the  shady  side  of 
the  principal  street  of  the  town,  while  the  opposite  part  was  gay 
with  successive  groups  of  gentlemen  and  ladies,  all  drawn  to- 
gether for  the  festivities  of  the  night,  not  one  of  whom  appeared 
willing  to  recognize  him.  The  horseman  dismounted  and  join- 
ed Burns,  who  on  his  proposing  to  him  to  cross  the  street,  said, 
'  Nay,  my  young  friend,  that  is  all  over  now,'  and  quoted,  after 
a  pause,  some  verses  of  Lady  Grizell  Baillie's  pathetic  ballad 
beginning,  '  The  bonnet  stood  ance  sae  fair  on  his  brow,'  and 
ending  '  And  were  na  my  heart  light  I  wad  die.""  It  was  little  in 
Burns's  character  to  let  his  feelings  on  certain  subjects  escape  in 
this  fashion.  He,  immediately  after  citing  these  verses,  assumed 
the  sprightliness  of  his  most  pleasing  manner ;  and  taking  his 
young  friend  home  with  him,  entertained  him  very  agreeably 
until  the  hour  of  the  ball  arrived,  with  a  bowl  of  his  usual  pota- 
tion, and  bonnie  Jean's  singing  of  some  verses  which  he  had 
recently  composed."  'Tis  a  pretty  picture  in  the  style  of  Wat- 
teau.  "  The  opposite  part  gay  with  successive  groups  of  gen- 
tlemen and  ladies,  all  drawn  together  for  the  festivities  of  the 
night."  What  were  they  about,  and  where  were  they  going? 
Were  they  as  yet  in  their  ordinary  clothes,  colts  and  fillies 
alike,  taking  their  exercise  preparatory  to  the  country-dances  of 
some  thirty  or  forty  couple,  that  in  those  days  used  to  try  the 
wind  of  both  sexes  ?  If  so,  they  might  have  chosen  better 
training-ground  along  the  banks  of  the  Nith.  Were  they  all  in 
full  fig,  the  females  with  feathers  on  their  heads,  the  males  with 
chapeaux  has — "  stepping  westward  "  arm  in  arm,  in  successive 
groups,  to  the  Assembly-room  ?  In  whichever  of  these  two 
pleasant  predicaments  they  were  placed,  it  showed  rare  perspi- 
cacity in  Daintie  Davie  to  discern  that  not  one  of  them  appeared 
willing  to  recognize  Burns — more  especially  as  he  was  walking 
on  the  other  and  shady  side  of  the  street,  and  Davie  on  horse- 
back. By  what  secret  signs  did  the  fair  free-masons — for  such 
there  be — express  to  their  mounted  brother  their  unwilliiigness 
to  recognize  from  the  sunshine  of  their  promenade,  the  ganger 
walking  alone  in  the  shade  of  his  ?     Was  flirtation  at  so  low  an 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  169 

ebb  in  Dumfries-shire,  that  the  flower  of  her  beaux  and  belles, 
"in  successive  groups,  drawn  together  for  the  festivities  of  the 
night,"  could  find  eyes  for  a  disagreeable  object  so  many  yards 
of  causeway  remote  ?  And  if  Burns  observed  that  they  gave 
him  the  cold  shoulder — cut  him  across  the  street — on  what  re- 
condite principle  of  conduct  did  he  continue  to  walk  there,  in 
place  of  stalking  off"  with  a  frown  to  his  Howf?  And  is  it  high 
Galloway  to  propose  to  a  friend  to  cross  the  street  to  do  the  civil 
"  to  successive  groups  of  gentlemen  and  ladies,  not  one  of  whom 
had  appeared  willing  to  recognize  him  ?"  However  it  was  gal- 
lant under  such  discouragement  to  patronize  the  gauger  ;  and 
we  trust  that  the  "  wicked  wee  bowl,"  while  it  detained  from, 
and  disinclined  to,  did  not  incapacitate  for  the  Ball. 

But  whence  all  those  expressions  so  frequent  in  his  corres- 
pondence, and  not  rare  in  his  poetry,  of  self-reproach  and  rueful 
remorse  ?  From  a  source  that  lay  deeper  than  our  eyes  can 
reach.  We  know  his  worst  sins,  but  cannot  know  his  sorrows. 
The  war  between  the  spirit  and  the  flesh  often  raged  in  his 
nature — as  in  that  of  the  best  of  beings  who  are  made — and  no 
Christian,  without  humblest  self-abasement,  will  ever  read  his 
Confessions. 

"  Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool, 
Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 
Owre  blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool, 

Let  him  draw  near  ; 
And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool, 

And  drap  a  tear. 

"  Is  there  a  bard  of  rustic  song. 
Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowds  among, 
That  weekly  this  area  throng, 

O,  pass  not  by  ! 
But  with  a  frater-feeling  strong. 

Here,  heave  a  sigh. 

"  Is  there  a  man,  whose  judgment  clear. 
Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer. 
Yet  runs  himself  life's  mad  career, 
Wild  as  the  wave  ; 


170  THE  GENIUS  AND 


Here  pause — and,  thro'  the  starting  tear, 
Survey  this  grave. 

"  The  poor  inhabitant  belov/ 
Was  quick  to  learn,  and  wise  to  know, 
And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow, 

And  softer  flame ; 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low, 

And  stain'd  his  name  ! 

"  Reader,  attend — whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole. 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole. 

In  low  pursuit ; 
Know,  prudent,  cautious,  self-control, 

Is  wisdom's  root." 

A  Bard's  Epitaph  !  Such  his  character  drawn  by  himself  in 
deepest  despondency — in  distraction — in  despair  calmed  while 
he  was  composing  it  by  the  tranquillizing  power  that  ever 
accompanies  the  action  of  genius.  And  shall  we  judge  him  as 
severely  as  he  judged  himself,  and  think  worse  of  him  than  of 
common  men,  because  he  has  immortalized  his  frailties  in  his 
contrition  ?  The  sins  of  common  men  are  not  remembered  in 
their  epitaphs.  Silence  is  a  privilege  of  the  grave  few  seek  to 
disturb.  If  there  must  be  no  eulogium,  our  name  and  age  suf- 
fice for  that  stone — and  whatever  may  have  been  thought  of  us, 
there  are  some  to  drop  a  tear  on  our  "  forlorn  hie  jacet."  Burns 
wrote  those  lines  in  the  very  prime  of  youthful  manhood.  You 
know  what  produced  them — his  miserable  attachment  to  her 
who  became  his  wife.  He  was  then  indeed  most  miserable — 
afterwards  most  happy  ;  he  cared  not  then  though  he  should  die 
— all  his  other  offences  rose  against  him  in  that  agony;  and 
how  humbly  he  speaks  of  his  high  endowments,  under  a  sense 
of  the  sins  by  which  they  had  been  debased  !  He  repented,  and 
sinned  again  and  again  ;  for  his  repentance — though  sincere — 
was  not  permanent ;  yet  who  shall  say  that  it  was  not  accepted 
at  last  ?  **'  Owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool,  and  drap  a  tear," 
is  an  injunction  that  has  been  obeyed  by  many  a  pitying  heart. 
Yet  a  little  while,  and  his  Jean  buried  him  in  such  a  grave.  A 
few  years  more,  and  a  mausoleum  was  erected  by  the  nation  for 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  171 

his  honored  dust.     Now  husband  and  wife  lie  side  by  side — 
"in  hopes  of  a  joyful  resurrection." 

Burns  belonged  to  that  order  of  prevailing  poets,  with  whom 
"  all  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights  "  possess  not  that  entire 
satisfaction  nature  intends,  till  they  effuse  themselves  abroad, 
for  sake  of  the  sympathy  that  binds  them,  even  in  uttermost 
solitude,  to  the  brotherhood  of  man.  No  secrets  have  they  that 
words  can  reveal.  They  desire  that  the  whole  race  shall  see 
their  very  souls — shall  hear  the  very  beatings  of  their  hearts. 
Thus  they  hope  to  live  for  ever  in  kindred  bosoms.  They  feel 
that  a  greater  power  is  given  them  in  their  miseries — for  what 
miseries  has  any  man  ever  harbored  in  the  recesses  of  his  spirit, 
that  he  has  not  shared,  and  will  share,  with  "  numbers  without 
number  numberless  "  till  the  Judgment  Day  ! 

Who  reads  unmoved  such  sentences  as  these  ?  "  The  fates 
and  characters  of  the  rhyming  tribe  often  employ  my  thoughts 
when  I  am  disposed  to  be  melancholy.  There  is  not,  among  all 
the  martyrologies  that  ever  were  penned,  so  woeful  a  narrative 
as  the  lives  of  the  Poets.  In  the  comparative  view  of  wretches, 
the  question  is  not  what  they  are  doomed  to  suffer,  but  how 
they  are  formed  to  bear  !"  Long  before  the  light  of  heaven 
had  ever  been  darkened  or  obscured  in  his  conscience  by  evil 
thoughts  or  evil  deeds,  when  the  bold  bright  boy,  with  his  thick 
black  clustering  hair  ennobling  his  ample  forehead,  was  slaving 
for  his  parents'  sakes — Robert  used  often  to  lie  by  Gilbert's 
side  all  night  long  without  ever  closing  an  eye  in  sleep  ;  for  that 
large  heart  of  his,  that  loved  all  his  eyes  looked  upon  of  na- 
ture's works  living  or  dead,  perfect  as  was  its  mechanism  for 
the  play  of  all  lofty  passions,  would  get  suddenly  disarranged, 
as  if  approached  the  very  hour  of  death.  Who  will  say  that 
many  more  years  were  likely  to  have  fallen  to  the  lot  of  one  so 
framed,  had  he  all  life  long  drunk,  as  in  youth,  but  of  the 
well-water — "  laid  down  with  the  dove,  and  risen  with  the 
lark !"  If  excesses  in  which  there  was  vice  and  therefore 
blame,  did  injure  his  health,  how  far  more  those  other  excesses 
in  which  there  was  so  much  virtue,  and  on  which  there  should 
be  praise  for  ever  !  Over-anxious,  over- working  hours  beneath 
the  mid-day  sun,  and  sometimes  to  save  a  scanty  crop  beneath 


172  THE  GENIUS  AND 


the  midnight  moon,  to  which  he  looked  up  without  knowing  it 
with  a  poet's  eyes,  as  he  kept  forking  the  sheaves  on  the  high 
laden  cart  that  "Hesperus,  who  led  the  starry  host"  beheld 
crashing  into  the  barn-yard  among  shouts  of  "Harvest  Home." 
It  has  been  thought  that  there  are  not  a  few  prominent  points 
of  character  common  to  Burns  and  Byron  ;  and  though  no 
formal  comparison  between  them  has  been  drawn  that  we  know 
of,  nor  would  it  be  worth  while  attempting  it,  as  not  much  would 
come  of  it,  we  suspect,  without  violent  stretching  and  bending 
of  materials,  and  that  free  play  of  fancy  which  makes  no  bones 
of  facts,  still  there  is  this  resemblance,  that  they  both  give  unre- 
served expositions  of  their  most  secret  feelings,  undeterred  by 
any  fear  of  offending  others,  or  of  bringing  censure  on  them- 
selves by  such  revelations  of  the  inner  man.  Byron  as  a  moral 
being  was  below  Burns ;  and  there  is  too  often  much  affecta- 
tion and  insincerity  in  his  Confessions.  "  Fare  thee  well,  and 
if  for  ever,  still  for  ever  fare  thee  well,"  is  not  elegiac,  but 
satirical ;  a  complaint  in  which  the  bitterness  is  not  of  grief, 
but  of  gall ;  how  unlike  "  The  Lament  on  the  unfortunate  issue 
of  a  Friend's  Amour"  overflowing  with  the  expression  of  every 
passion  cognate  with  love's  despair  !  Do  not  be  startled  by  our 
asking  you  to  think  for  a  little  while  of  Robert  Burns  along 
with — Samuel  Johnson.  Listen  to  him,  and  you  hear  as  wise 
and  good  a  man  as  earth  ever  saw  for  ever  reproaching  himself 
with  his  wickedness ;  "  from  almost  the  earliest  time  he  could 
remember  he  had  been  forming  schemes  for  a  better  life."  Se- 
lect from  his  notes,  prayers,  and  diaries,  and  from  the  authentic 
records  of  his  oral  discourse,  all  acknowledgments  of  his  evil 
thoughts,  practices,  and  habits ;  all  charges  brought  against 
him  by  conscience,  of  sins  of  omission  and  commission  ;  all 
declarations,  exclamations,  and  interjections  of  agonizing  re- 
morse and  gloomy  despair — from  them  write  his  character  in  his 
epitaph — and  look  there  on  the  Christian  Sage  !  God  forbid  ! 
that  saving  truths  should  be  so  changed  into  destroying  false- 
hoods. Slothful,  selfish,  sensual,  envious,  uncharitable,  undu- 
tiful  to  his  parents,  thoughtless  of  Him  who  died  to  save  sinners, 
and  living  without  God  in  the  world ; — That  is  the  wretched 
being  named  Samuel  Johnson — in  the  eyes  of  his  idolatrous 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  173 

countrymen  only  a  little  lower  than  the  angels — in  his  own  a 
worm  !  Slothful  !  yet  how  various  his  knowledge  !  acquired 
by  fits  and  snatches — book  in  hand,  and  poring  as  if  nearly 
sand-blind — ^yet  with  eyes  in  their  own  range  of  vision,  keen  as 
the  lynx's  or  the  eagle's — on  pages  no  better  than  blanks  to 
common  minds,  to  his  hieroglyphical  of  wisest  secrets— or  in 
long  assiduity  of  continuous  studies,  of  which  a  month  to  him 
availed  more  than  to  you  or  us  a  year — or  all  we  have  had  of 
life.  Selfish  !  with  obscure  people,  about  whom  nobody  cared, 
provided  for  out  of  his  slender  means  within  doors,  paupers 
though  they  thought  it  not,  and  though  meanly  endowed  by 
nature  as  by  fortune,  admitted  into  the  friendship  of  a  Sage 
simple  as  a  child— out  of  door^  pensioners  waiting  for  him  at 
the  corners  of  streets,  of  whom  he  knew  little,  but  that  they 
were  hungry  and  wanted  bread,  and  probably  had  been  brought 
by  sin  to  sorrow.  Sensual  !  Because  his  big  body,  getting  old, 
"  needed  repairs,"  and  because  though  "  Rasselas  Prince  of 
Abyssinia"  had  been  written  on  an  empty  stomach,  which 
happened  when  he  was  comparatively  young  and  could  not  help 
it,  now  that  he  had  reached  his  grand  climacteric,  he  was  deter- 
mined to  show  not  to  the  whole  world,  but  to  large  parties,  that 
all  the  fat  of  the  earth  was  not  meant  for  the  mouths  of  block- 
heads. Envious  !  of  David  Garrick  ?  Poh  !  poh  !  Pshaw  ! 
pshaw !  Uncharitable  ?  We  have  disposed  of  that  clause  of 
the  verse  in  our  commentary  on  "  selfish."  Undutiful  to  his 
parents  !  He  did  all  man  could  to  support  his  mother ;  and 
having  once  disobliged  his  father  by  sulkily  refusing  to  assist  at 
his  book-stall,  half  a  century  afterwards,  more  or  less,  when  at 
the  head  of  English  literature,  and  the  friend  of  Burke  and 
Beauclerk,  he  stood  bareheaded  for  an  hour  in  the  rain  on  the 
site  of  said  book-stall,  in  the  market-place  of  Litchfield,  in 
■  penance  for  that  great  sin.  As  to  the  last  two  charges  in  the 
indictment — if  he  was  not  a  Christian,  who  can  hope  for  salva- 
tion in  the  Cross  ?  If  his  life  was  that  of  an  atheist,  who  of 
woman  born  ever  walked  with  God  ?  Yet  it  is  true  he  was  a 
great  sinner.  "  l(  we  say  we  have  no  sin,  we  deceive  our- 
selves, and  the  truth  is  not  in  us  ;  but  if  we  confess  our  sins, 


174  THE  GENIUS  AND 


he  is  faithful  and  just  to  forgive  us  our  sins,  and  to  cleanse  us 
from  all  unrighteousness." 

Burns  died  in  his  thirty- eighth  year.  At  that  age  what  had 
Johnson  done  to  be  for  ever  remembered  ?  He  had  written  Irene, 
London,  and  the  Life  of  Savage.  Of  Irene  the  world  makes 
little  account — it  contains  many  just  and  noble  sentiments — but 
it  is  a  Tragedy  without  tears.  The  Life  is  an  eloquent  lie,  told 
in  the  delusion  of  a  friendship  sealed  by  participated  sorrows. 
London  is  a  satire  of  the  true  moral  vein — more  sincerely  indig- 
nant with  the  vices  it  withers  than  its  prototype  in  Juvenal— 
with  all  the  vigor,  without  any  of  the  coarseness  of  Dryden — 
with  "  the  pointed  propriety  of  Pope,"  and  versification  almost 
as  musical  as  his,  while  not  so  monotonous — an  immortal  strain. 
But  had  he  died  in  1747,  how  slight  had  been  our  knowledge — • 
our  interest  how  dull — in  the  "  Life  and  Writings  of  Samuel 
Johnson  !"  How  slight  our  knowledge  !  We  should  never  have 
known  that  in  childhood  he  showed  symptoms  "  of  that  jealous 
independence  of  spirit  and  impetuosity  of  temper  which  never 
forsook  him" — as  Burns  in  the  same  season  had  showed  that 
"stubborn  sturdy  something  in  his  disposition"  which  was  there 
to  the  last ; — That  he  displayed  then  "  that  power  of  memory  for 
which  he  was  all  his  life  eminent  to  a  degree  almost  incredi- 
ble"— as  Burns  possessed  that  faculty — so  thought  Murdoch — 
in  more  strength  than  imagination ; — That  he  never  joined  the 
other  boys  in  their  ordinary  diversions  "  but  would  wander  away 
into  the  fields  talking  to  himself" — like  Burns  walking  miles 
"to  pay  his  respects  to  the  Leglen  wood  ;" — That  when  a  boy 
he  was  immoderately  fond  of  reading  romances  of  chivalry — 
as  Burns  was  of  Blind  Harry  ; — That  he  fell  into  "  an  inatten- 
tion to  religion  or  an  indifference  about  it  in  his  ninth  year,"  and 
after  his  fourteenth  "  became  a  sort  of  lax  talker  against  re- 
ligion, for  he  did  not  much  tliink  about  it,  and  this  lasted  till  he 
went  to  Oxford,  where  it  would  not  be  sitffered'^ — ^just  as  the 
child  Burns  was  remarkable  for  an  "  enthusiastic  idiot  piety," 
and  had  pleasure  during  some  years  of  his  youth  in  puzzling  his 
companions  on  points  in  divinity,  till  he  saw  his  folly,  and  with- 
out getting  his  mouth  shut,  was  mute  ; — That  on  his  return  home 
from  Stourbridge  school  in  his  eighteenth  year  "he  had  no  set- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  175 

tied  plan  of  life,  nor  looked  forward  at  all,  but  merely  lived  from 
day  to  day  " — like  Burns  who,  when  a  year  or  two  older  in  his 
.  perplexity,  writes  to  his  father  that  he  knows  not  what  to  do,  and 
is  sick  of  life  ; — That  his  love  of  literature  was  excited  by  acci- 
dentally finding  a  folio  of  Petrarch — as  Burns's  love  of  poetry 
was  by  an  octavo  Shenstone ; — That  he  thereon  became  a  glut- 
tonous book-devourer — as  Burns  did — "  no  book  being  so  volu- 
minous as  to  slacken  his  industry,  or  so  antiquated  as  to  damp 
his  researches ;" — That  in  his  twentieth  year  he  felt  himself 
"  overwhelmed  with  a  horrible  hypochondria,  with  perpetual  irri- 
tation, fretfulness,  and  impatience,  and  with  a  dejection,  gloom, 
and  despair  which  rendered  existence  misery  " — as  Burns  tells 
us  he  was  afflicted — even  earlier — and  to  the  last — "  with  a  con- 
stitutional melancholy  or  hypochondriasm  that  made  me  fly  to 
solitude  " — with  horrid  flutterings  and  stoppages  of  the  heart  that 
often  almost  choked  him,  so  that  he  had  to  fall  out  of  bed  into  a 
tub  of  water  to  allay  the  anguish  ; — That  he  was  at  Pembroke 
College  "  caressed  and  loved  by  all  about  him  as  a  gay  and  fro- 
licsome fellow  " — while  **  ah !  Sir,  I  was  mad  and  violent — it 
was  bitterness  which  they  mistook  for  frolic  " — just  as  Burns 
was  thought  to  be  "  with  his  strong  appetite  for  sociality  as  well 
from  native  hilarity  as  from  a  pride  of  observation  and  remark," 
though  when  left  alone  desponding  and  distracted  ; — That  he  was 
generally  seen  lounging  at  the  College  gate,  with  a  circle  of  stu- 
dents round  him,  whom  he  was  entertaining  with  wit,  and  keep- 
ing from  their  studies,  if  not  spiriting  them  up  to  rebellion 
against  the  College  discipline,  which  in  his  maturer  years  he  so 
much  extolled  " — as  Burns  was  sometimes  seen  at  the  door  of  a 
Public  ridiculing  the  candles  of  the  Auld  Light  and  even  spirit- 
ing the  callants  against  the  Kirk  itself,  which  we  trust  he  looked 
on  more  kindly  in  future  years ; — That  he  had  to  quit  college 
on  his  father's  bankruptcy  soon  followed  by  death,  as  Burns  in 
similar  circumstances  had  to  quit  Lochlea ; — "  That  in  the  forlorn 
state  of  his  circumstances,  jEtat.  23,  he  accepted  of  an  offer  to  be 
employed  as  usher  in  the  school  of  Market-Bos  worth,"  where  he 
was  miserable — ^just  as  Burns  was  at  the  same  age,  not  indeed 
flogging  boys  but  flailing  barns,  "  a  poor  insignificant  devil,  un- 
noticed and  unknown,  and  stalking  up  and  down  fairs  and  mar- 


176  THE  GENIUS  AND 


kets : — That  soon  after  "  he  published  proposals  for  printing  by 
■  subscription  the  Latin  Poems  of  Politian  at  two  shillings  and 
sixpence,  but  that  there  were  not  subscribers  enough  to  secure  a 
sufficient  sale,  so  the  work  never  appeared,  and  probably  never 
was  executed  " — as  Burns  soon  after  issued  proposals  for  print- 
ing by  subscription  on  terms  rather  higher  "  among  others  the 
Ordination,  Scotch  Drink,  the  Cottar's  Saturday  Night,  and  an 
Address  to  the  Deil,"  which  volume  ere  long  was  published  ac- 
cordingly and  had  a  great  sale ; — That  he  had,  "  from  early 
youth,  been  sensible  to  the  influence  of  female  charms,  and  when 
at  Stourbridge  school  was  much  enamored  of  Olivia  Lloyd,  a 
young  Quaker,  to  whom  he  wrote  a  copy  of  verses" — just  as 
Burns  was — and  did — in  the  case  of  Margaret  Thomson,  in  the 
kale-yard  at  Kirkoswald,  and  of  many  others ; — That  his  "juve- 
nile attachments  to  the  fair  sex  were  however  very  transient, 
and  it  is  certain  that  he  formed  no  criminal  connection  what- 
ever ;  Mr.  Hector,  who  lived  with  him  in  the  utmost  intimacy 
and  social  freedom,  having  assured  me  that  even  at  that  ardent 
season  his  conduct  was  strictly  virtuous  in  that  respect " — just 
so  with  Burns  who  fell  in  love  with  every  lass  he  saw  "  come 
wading  barefoot  all  alane,"  while  his  brother  Gilbert  gives  us 
the  same  assurance  of  his  continence  in  all  his  youthful  loves ; — 
That  "  in  a  man  whom  religious  education  has  saved  from  licen- 
tious indulgences,  the  passion  of  love  when  once  it  has  seized 
him  is  exceeding  strong,  and  this  was  experienced  by  Johnson 
when  he  became  the  fervent  admirer  of  Mrs.  Porter  after  her 
first  husband's  death  " — as  it  was  unfortunately  too  much  the 
case  with  Burns,  though  he  did  not  marry  a  widow  double  his 
own  age — but  one  who  was  a  Maid  till  she  met  Rob  Mossgiel — 
and  some  six  years  younger  than  himself; — That  unable  to  find 
subsistence  in  his  native  place,  or  anywhere  else,  he  was  driven 
by  want  to  try  his  fortune  in  London,  "the  great  field  of  genius 
and  exertion,  where  talents  of  every  kind  have  the  fullest  scope, 
and  the  highest  encouragement,"  on  his  way  thither,  "  riding  and 
tying"  with  Davie  Garrick — just  as  Burns  was  impelled  to 
make  an  experiment  on  Edinburgh,  journeying  thither  on  foot, 
but  without  any  companion  in  his  adventure  ; — that  after  getting 
on  there  iQdifferentiy  well,  he  returned  "  in  the  course  of  the 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  177 

next  summer  to  Lichfield,  where  he  had  left  Mrs.  Johnson,"  and 
stayed  there  three  weeks,  his  mother  asking  him  whether,  when  in 
London,  "  He  was  one  of  those  who  gave  the  wall  or  those  who 
took  it" — just  as  Burns  returned  to  Mauchline,  where  he  had 
left  Mrs.  Burns,  and  remained  in  the  neighborhood  about  the 
same  period  of  time,  his  mother  having  said  to  him  on  his  return, 
*'  0,  Robert;" — That  he  took  his  wife  back  with  him  to  London, 
resolving  to  support  her  the  best  way  he  could,  by  the  cultiva- 
tion of  the  fields  of  literature,  and  chiefly  through  an  engage- 
ment as  ganger  and  supervisor  to  Cave's  Magazine — as  Burns, 
with  similar  purposes,  and  not  dissimilar  means,  brought  his  wife 
to  Ellisland,  then  to  Dumfries ; — That  partly  from  necessity  and 
partly  from  inclination,  he  used  to  perambulate  the  streets  of  the 
city  at  all  hours  of  the  night,  and  was  far  from  being  prim  or 
precise  in  his  company,  associating  much  with  one  Savage  at 
least  who  had  rubbed  shoulders  with  the  gallows — ^just  as  Burns 
on  Jenny  Geddes  and  her  successor  kept  skirring  the  country  at 
all  hours,  though  we  do  not  hear  of  any  of  his  companions  hav- 
ing been  stabbers  in  brothel-brawls  ; — That  on  the  publication  of 
his  ''  London,"  that  city  rang  with  applause,   and  Pope   pro- 
nounced the  author — yet  anonymous — a  true  poet,  who  would 
soon  be  deterre,  while  General  Oglethorpe  became  his  patron, 
and  such  a  prodigious  sensation  did  his  genius  make,  that  in  the 
fulness  of  his  fame.  Earl  Gower  did  what  he  could  to  set  him  on 
the  way  of  being  elevated  to  a  schoolmastership  in  some  small 
village  in  Shropshire  or  Staffordshire,  "of  which  the  certain  sal- 
ary  was  sixty  pounds  a-year,  which  would  make  him  happy  for 
life  " — so  said  English  Earl  Gower  to  an  Irish  Dean  called  Jona- 
than Swift — ;iust  as  Burns  soon  after  the  publication  of  "Tam 
o'  Shanter,"  was  in  great  favor  with  Captain  Grose — though  there 
was  then  no  need  for  any  poet  to  tell  the  world  he  was  one,  as  he 
had  been  "  deterre  a  year  or  two  before,  and  by  the  unexampled 
exertions  of  Grahame  of  Fintry,  the  Earl  of  Glencairn  being 
oblivious  or  dead,  was  translated  to  the  diocese  of  Dumfries, 
where  he  died  in  the  thirty-eighth  year  of  his  age ;  the  very 
year,  we  believe,  of  his,  in  which  Johnson  issued  the  prospectus 
of  his  Dictionary ; — and  here  we  leave  the  Lexicographer  for  a 

13 


17S  THE  GENIUS  AND 


moment  to  himself,  and  let  our  mind  again  be  occupied  for  a  mo- 
ment exclusively  by  the  Exciseman. 

You  will  not  suppose  that  we  seriously  insist  on  this  parallel 
as  if  the  lines  throughout  ran  straight ;  or  that  we  are  not  well 
aware  that  there  was  far  from  being  in  reality  such  complete 
correspondence  of  the  circumstances — much  less  the  characters 
of  the  men.  But  both  had  to  struggle  for  their  very  lives — it  was 
sink  or  swim — and  by  their  own  buoyancy  they  were  borne  up. 
In  Johnson's  case,  there  is  not  one  dark  stain  on  the  story  of  all 
those  melancholy  and  memorable  years.  Hawkins  indeed 
more  than  insinuates  that  there  was  a  separation  between  him 
and  his  wife,  at  the  time  he  associated  with  Savage,  and  used 
with  that  profligate  to  stroll  the  streets  ;  and  that  she  was 
"  harbored  by  a  friend  near  the  Tower;"  but  Croker  justly  re- 
marks— "  That  there  never  has  existed  any  human  being,  all  the 
details  of  whose  life,  all  the  motives  of  whose  actions,  all  the 
thoughts  of  whose  mind,  have  been  so  unreservedly  brought 
before  the  public  ;  even  his  prayers,  his  most  secret  meditations, 
and  his  most  scrupulous  self-reproaches,  have  been  laid  before 
the  world ;  and  there  is  not  to  be  found,  in  all  the  unparalleled 
information  thus  laid  before  us,  a  single  trace  to  justify  the 
accusation  which  Hawkins  so  wantonly  and  so  odiously,  and  it 
may  be  assumed,  so  falsely  makes."  However,  he  walked  in 
the  midst  of  evil — he  was  familiar  with  the  faces  of  the  wicked 
T-the  guilty,  as  they  were  passing  by,  he  did  not  always  shun, 
as  if  they  were  lepers  ;  he  had  a  word  for  them — ^poor  as  he 
was,  a  small  coin — for  they  were  of  the  unfortunate  and  forlorn, 
and  his  heart  was  pitiful.  So  was  that  of  Burns.  Very  many 
years  Heaven  allotted  to  the  Sage,  that  virtue  might  be  instructed 
by  wisdom — all  the  good  acknowledge  that  he  is  great — and  his 
memory  is  hallowed  for  evermore  in  the  gratitude  of  Christendom. 
In  his  prime  it  pleased  God  to  cut  off  the  Poet — but  his  genius 
too  has  left  a  blessing  to  his  own  people — and  has  diffused  noble 
thoughts,  generous  sentiments,  and  tender  feelings  over  many 
lands,  and  most  of  all  among  them  who  more  especially  feel  that 
they  are  his  brethren,  the  Poor  who  make  the  Rich,  and  like  him 
are  happy,  in  spite  of  its  hardships,  in  their  own  condition.  Let 
the  imperfections  of  his  character  then  be  spared,  if  it  be  even 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  179 

for  the  sake  of  his  genius ;  on  higher  grounds  let  it  be  honored ; 
for  if  there  was  much  weakness,  its  strength  was  mighty,  and 
his  religious  country  is  privileged  to  forget  his  frailties,  in 
humble  trust  that  they  are  forgiven. 

We  have  said  but  little  hitherto  of  Burns's  religion.  Some 
have  denied  that  he  had  any  religion  at  all — a  rash  and  cruel 
denial — made  in  the  face  of  his  genius,  his  character,  and  his 
life.  What  man  in  his  senses  ever  lived  without  religion  ?  "  The 
fool  hath  said  in  his  heart.  There  is  no  God " — was  Burns  an 
atheist  ?  We  do  not  fear  to  say  that  he  was  religious  far  be- 
yond  the  common  run  of  men,  even  them  who  may  have  had  a 
more  consistent  and  better  considered  creed.  The  lessons  he 
received  in  the  "  auld  clay  biggin  "  were  not  forgotten  through 
life.  He  speaks — and  we  believe  him — of  his  "  early  ingrained 
piety  "  having  been  long  remembered  to  good  purpose — what  he 
called  his  "idiot  piety" — not  meaning  thereby  to  disparage  it, 
but  merely  that  it  was  in  childhood  an  instinct.  "  Our  Father 
which  art  in  Heaven,  hallowed  be  thy  name  !"  is  breathed  from 
the  lips  of  infancy  with  the  same  feeling  at  its  heart  that  beats 
towards  its  father  on  earth,  as  it  kneels  in  prayer  by  his  side. 
No  one  surely  will  doubt  his  sincerity  when  he  writes  from  Irvine 
to  his  father — "  Honor'd  sir — I  am  quite  transported  at  the 
thought,  that  e'er  long,  perhaps  soon,  I  shall  bid  an  eternal  adieu 
to  all  the  pains,  and  uneasinesses,  and  disquietudes  of  this  weary 
life  ;  for  I  assure  you  I  am  heartily  tired  of  it,  and,  if  I  do  not  very 
much  deceive  myself,  I  could  contentedly  and  gladly  resign  it.  It 
is  for  this  reason  1  am  more  pleased  with  the  15th,  16th,  and  17th 
verses  of  the  7th  chapter  of  Revelations,  than  with  any  ten 
times  as  many  verses  in  the  whole  Bible,  and  would  not  exchange 
the  noble  enthusiasm  with  which  they  inspire  me,  for  all  that  this 
world  has  to  offer.  *  15.  Therefore  are  they  before  the  throne 
of  God,  and  serve  him  day  and  night  in  his  temple  ;  and  hetha. 
sitteth  on  the  throne  shall  dwell  among  them.  16.  They  shall 
hunger  no  more,  neither  thirst  any  more  ;  neither  shall  the  sun 
light  on  them,  nor  any  heat.  17.  For  the  Lamb  that  is  in  the 
midst  of  the  throne  shall  feed  them,  and  shall  lead  them  unto 
living  fountains  of  waters ;  and  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears 
from  their  eyes.' "     When  he  gives  lessons  to  a  young  man  for 


180  THE  GENIUS  AND 


his  conduct  in  life,  one  of  them  is,  "  The'  great  Creator  to 
adore;"  when  he  consoles  a  friend  on  the  death  of  a  relative, 
*'  he  points  the  brimful  grief- worn  eyes  to  scenes  beyond  the 
grave ;"  when  he  expresses  benevolence  to  a  distressed  family, 
he  beseeches  the  aid  of  Him  "  who  tempers  the  wind  to  the 
shorn  lamb  ;"  when  he  feels  the  need  of  aid  to  control  his 
passions,  he  implores  that  of  the  "  Great  Governor  of  all  below  ;" 
when  in  sickness,  he  has  a  prayer  for  the  pardon  of  all  his  errors, 
and  an  expression  of  confidence  in  the  goodness  of  God ;  when 
suffering  from  the  ills  of  life,  he  asks  for  the  grace  of  resigna- 
tion, "  because  they  are  thy  will ;"  when  he  observes  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  virtuous,  he  remembers  a  rectifying  futurity ; — he  is 
religious  not  only  when  surprised  by  occasions  such  as  these, 
but  also  on  set  occasions ;  he  had  regular  worship  in  his  family 
while  at  Ellisland — we  know  not  how  it  was  at  Dumfries,  but 
we  do  know  that  there  he  catechised  his  children  every  Sabbath 
evening ; — Nay,  he  does  not  enter  a  Druidical  circle  without 
a  prayer  to  God. 

He  viewed  the  Creator  chiefly  in  his  attributes  of  love,  good- 
ness, and  mercy.  "  In  proportion  as  we  are  wrung  with  grief, 
or  distracted  with  anxiety,  the  ideas  of  a  superintending  Deity, 
an  Almighty  protector,  are  doubly  dear."  Him  he  never  lost 
sight  of,  or  confidence  in,  even  in  the  depths  of  his  remorse.  An 
avenging  God  was  too  seldom  in  his  contemplations — from  the 
little  severity  in  his  own  character — from  a  philosophical  view 
of  the  inscrutable  causes  of  human  frailty — and  most  of  all, 
from  a  diseased  aversion  to  what  was  so  much  the  theme  of  the 
sour  Calvinism  around  him  ;  but  which  would  have  risen  up  an 
appalling  truth  in  such  a  soul  as  his,  had  it  been  habituated  to 
profounder  thought  on  the  mysterious  corruption  of  our  fallen 
nature. 

Sceptical  thoughts  as  to  revealed  religion  had  assailed  his 
mind,  while  with  expanding  powers  it  "  communed  with  the  glo- 
rious universe ;"  and  in  1787  he  writes  from  Edinburgh  to  a 
*'  Mr.  James  M'Candlish,  student  in  physic,  College,  Glasgow," 
who  had  favored  him  with  along  argumentative  infidel  letter,  "I, 
likewise,  since  you  and  I  were  first  acquainted,  in  the  pride  of 
despising  old  women's  stories,   ventured  on   'the  daring  path 


•  CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  181 

Spinoza  trod  ;'  but  experience  of  the  weakness,  not  the  strength 
of  human  powers,  made  me  glad  to  grasp  at  revealed  religion.'' 
When  at  Ellisland,  he  writes  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  "  My  idle  reason- 
ings sometimes  make  me  a  little  sceptical,  but  the  necessities  of 
my  heart  always  give  the  cold  philosophizings  the  lie.  Who 
looks  for  the  heart  weaned  from  earth  ;  the  soul  affianced  to  her 
God  ;  the  correspondence  fixed  with  heaven ;  the  pious  suppli- 
cation and  devout  thanksgiving,  constant  as  the  vicissitudes  of 
even  and  morn ;  who  thinks  to  meet  with  these  in  the  court,  the 
palace,  in  the  glare  of  public  life  !  No  :  to  find  them  in  their 
precious  importance  and  divine  efficacy,  we  must  search  among 
the  obscure  recesses  of  disappointment,  affliction,  poverty,  and 
distress."  And  again,  next  year,  from  the  same  place  to  the 
same  correspondent,  "  That  there  is  an  incomprehensibly  Great 
Being,  to  whom  I  owe  my  existence,  and  that  he  must  be  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  the  operations  and  progress  of  the  internal 
machinery,  and  consequent  outward  deportment  of  this  creature 
he  has  made — these  are,  I  think,  self-evident  propositions.  That 
there  is  a  real  and  eternal  distinction  between  vice  and  virtue, 
and  consequently,  that  I  am  an  accountable  creature  ;  that  from 
the  seeming  nature  of  the  human  mind,  as  well  as  from  the 
evident  imperfection,  nay  positive  injustice,  in  the  administration 
of  affairs,  both  in  the  natural  and  moral  worlds,  there  must  be  a 
retributive  sense  of  existence  beyond  the  grave,  must,  I  think, 
be  allowed  by  every  one  who  will  give  himself  a  moment's  re- 
flection. I  will  go  farther  and  affirm,  that  from  the  sublimity, 
excellence,  and  purity  of  his  doctrine  and  precepts,  unparalleled 
by  all  the  aggregated  wisdom  and  learning  of  many  preceding 
ages,  though  to  appearance  he  was  himself  the  obscurest  and 
most  illiterate  of  our  species  :  therefore  Jesus  was  from  God." 
Indeed,  all  his  best  letters  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  are  full  of  the  ex- 
pression of  religious  feeling  and  religious  faith  ;  though  it  must 
be  confessed  with  pain,  that  he  speaks  with  more  confidence  in 
the  truth  of  natural  than  of  revealed  religion,  and  too  often  lets 
sentiments  inadvertently  escape  him,  that,  taken  by  themselves, 
would  imply  that  his  religious  belief  was  but  a  Christianized 
Theism.  Of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  he  never  expresses 
any  serious  doubt,  though  now  and  then,  his  expressions,  though 


182  THE  GENIUS  AND 


beautiful,  want  their  usual  force,  as  if  he  felt  the  inadequacy  of 
the  human  mind  to  the  magnitude  of  the  theme.  "  Ye  venerable 
sages,  and  holy  flamens,  is  there  probability  in  your  conjectures, 
truth  in  your  stories,  of  another  world  beyond  death ;  or  are 
they  all  alike  baseless  visions  and  fabricated  fables  ?  If  there 
is  another  life,  it  must  be  only  for  the  just,  the  amiable,  and  the 
humane.  What  a  flattering  idea  this  of  the  world  to  come ! 
Would  to  God  I  as  firmly  believed  it  as  I  ardently  wish  it." 

How,  then,  could  honored  Thomas  Carlyle  bring  himself  to 
affirm,  "  that  Burns  had  no  religion  ?"    His  religion  was  in  much 
imperfect — but  its  incompleteness  you  discern  only  on  a  survey 
of  all  his  effusions,  and  by  inference ;  for  his  particular  expres- 
sions of  a  religious  kind  are  genuine,  and  as  acknowledgments 
of  the  superabundant  goodness  and  greatness  of  God,  they  are 
in  unison  with  the  sentiments  of  the  devoutest  Christian.     But 
remorse  never  suggests  to  him  the  inevitable  corruption  of  man ; 
Christian  humility  he  too  seldom  dwells  on,  though  without  it 
there  cannot  be  Christian  faith  ;  and  he  is  silent  on  the  need  of 
reconcilement   between   the    divine   attributes   of  Justice   and 
Mercy.     The  absence  of  all  this  might  pass  unnoticed,  were  not 
the  religious  sentiment  so  prevalent  in  his  confidential  commu- 
nications with  his  friends  in  his  most  serious  and  solemn  moods. 
In  them  there  is  frequent,  habitual  recognition  of  the  Creator ; 
and  who  that  finds  joy  and  beauty  in  nature  has  not  the  same  ? 
It  may  be  well  supposed  that  if  common  men  are  more  ideal  in 
religion  than  in  other  things,  so  would  be  Burns.     He  who  has 
lent  the  colors  of  his  fancy  to  common  things,  would  not  with- 
hold them   from  divine.     Something — he    knew  not  what — he 
would  exact  of  man — more  impressively  reverential  than  any- 
thing he  is  wont  to  offer  to  God,  or  perhaps  can  offer  in  the  way 
of  institution — in  temples  made  with  hands.     The  heartfelt  ado- 
ration always  has  a  grace  for  him — in  the  silent  bosom — in  the 
lonely  cottage — in  any  place  where  circumstances  are  a  pledge 
of  its  reality  ;  but  the  moment  it  ceases  to  be  heartfelt,  and 
visibly    so,    it    loses    his    respect,    it   seems    as    profanation. 
"  Mine  is  the  religion  of  the  breast  j"  and  if  it  be  not,  what  is  it 
worth  ?     But  it  must  also  revive  a  right   spirit  within  us ;  and 
there  may  be  gratitude  for  goodness,  without  such  change  as  is 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  183 


required  of  us  in  the  gospel.  He  was  too  buoyant  with  immor- 
tal spirit  within  him  not  to  credit  its  immortal  destination  ;  he 
was  too  thoughtful  in  his  human  love  not  to  feel  how  different 
must  be  our  affections  if  they  are  towards  flowers  which  the 
blast  of  death  may  wither,  or  towards  spirits  which  are  but  he. 
ginning  to  live  in  our  sight,  and  are  gathering  good  and  evil  here 
for  an  eternal  life.  Burns  believed  that  by  his  own  unassisted 
understanding,  and  his  own  unassisted  heart,  he  saw  and  felt 
those  great  truths,  forgetful  of  this  great  truth,  that  he  had  been 
taught  them  in  the  Written  Word.  Had  all  he  learned  in  the 
"  auld  clay  biggin"  become  a  blank — all  the  knowledge  inspired 
into  his  heart  during  the  evenings,  when  "  the  sire  turned  o'er  wi' 
patriarchal  air,  the  big  ha'-bible,  ance  his  father's  pride,"  how 
little  or  how  much  would  he  then  have  known  of  God  and  Im- 
mortality  ?  In  that  delusion  he  shared  more  or  less  with  one  and 
all — whether  poets  or  philosophers — who  have  put  their  trust  in 
natural  Theology.  As  to  the  glooms  in  which  his  sceptical  rea- 
son had  been  involved,  they  do  not  seem  to  have  been  so  thick — 
so  dense — as  in  the  case  of  men  without  number,  who  have,  by 
the  blessing  of  God,  become  true  Christians.  Of  his  levities  on 
certain  celebrations  of  religious  rites,  we  before  ventured  an 
explanation ;  and  while  it  is  to  be  lamented  that  he  did  not  more 
frequently  dedicate  the  genius  that  shed  so  holy  a  lustre  over 
"  The  Cottar's  Saturday  Night,"  to  the  service  of  religion,  let  it 
be  remembered  how  few  poets  have  done  so — alas !  too  few — 
that  he,  like  his  tuneful  brethren,  must  often  have  been  deterred 
by  a  sense  of  his  own  unworthiness  from  approaching  its  awful 
mysteries — and  above  all,  that  he  was  called  to  his  account  be- 
fore he  had  attained  his  thoughtful  prime. 

And  now  that  we  are  approaching  the  close  of  our  Memoir,  it 
may  be  well  for  a  little  while  clearly  to  consider  Burns's  posi- 
tion in  this  world  of  ours,  where  we  humans  often  find  ourselves, 
we  cannot  tell  how,  in  strange  positions ;  and  where  there  are, 
on  all  hands,  so  many  unintelligible  things  going  on,  that  in  all 
languages  an  active  existence  is  assumed  of  such  powers  as 
Chance,  Fortune,  and  Fate.  Was  he  more  unhappy  than  the 
generality  of  gifted  men  ?  In  what  did  that  unhappiness  con- 
sist ?     How  far  was  it  owing  to  himself  or  others  ? 


184  THE  GENIUS  AND 


We  have  seen,  that  up  to  early  manhood  his  life  was  virtuous, 
and  therefore  nnust  have  been  happy — that  by  magnanimously 
enduring  a  hard  lot,  he  made  it  veritably  a  light  one — and  that 
though  subject  "  to  a  constitutional  melancholy  or  hypochondri- 
asm  that  made  him  fly  to  solitude,"  he  enjoyed  the  society  of  his 
own  humble  sphere  with  proportionate  enthusiasm,  and  even  then 
derived  deep  delight  from   his   genius.      That  genius  quickly 
waxed  strong,  and  very  suddenly  he  was  in  full  power  as  a  poet. 
No  sooner  was  passion  indulged  than  it  prevailed — and  he  who 
had  so  often  felt  during  his  abstinent  sore-toiled  youth  that  "  a 
blink  of  rest's  a  sweet  enjoyment,"  had  now  often  to  rue  the 
self-brought  trouble  that  banishes  rest  even  from  the  bed  of  labor, 
whose  sleep  would  otherwise  be  without  a  dream.     "  I  have  for 
some  time  been  pining  under  secret  wretchedness,  from  causes 
which  you  pretty  well  know — the  pang  of  disappointment,  the 
sting  of  pride,  with   some  wandering  stabs  of  remorse,   which 
never  fail  to  settle  on  my  vitals  like  vultures,  when  attention  is 
not  called  away  by  the  calls  of  society,  or  the  vagaries  of  the 
Muse."     These  agonies  had  a  well-known  particular  cause,  but 
his  errors  were  frequent  and  to  his  own  eyes  flagrant — yet  he 
was  no  irreligious  person — and  exclaimed — "  Oh  !  thou  great, 
unknown  Power !  thou  Almighty  God  !  who  hast  lighted  up  rea- 
son in  my  breast,  and  blessed  me   with  immortality  !     I  have 
frequently  wandered  from  that  order  and  regularity  necessary 
for  the  perfection  of  thy  works,  yet  thou  hast  never  left  me  nor 
forsaken  me."     What  signified  it  to  him  that  he  was  then  very 
poor  ?     The  worst  evils  of  poverty  are  moral  evils,  and  them  he 
then  knew  not ;  nay,  in  that  school  he  was  trained  to  many  vir- 
tues, which  might  not  have  been  so  conspicuous  even  in  hie  noble 
nature,  but  for  that  severest  nurture.     Shall  we  ask,  what  signi- 
fied it  to  him  that  he  was  very  poor  to  the  last  ?     Alas  !  it 
signified  much ;  for  when  a  poor  man  becomes  a  husband  and  a 
father,  a  new  heart  is  created  within  him,  and  he  often  finds 
himself  trembling  in  fits  of  unendurable,   because    unavailing 
fears.     Of  such  anxieties  Burns  suflTered  much  ;  yet  better  men 
than   Burns — better  because  sober  and  more   religious — have 
suffered  far  more;  nor  in  their  humility  and  resignation  did  they 
say  even  unto  themselves  "that  God  had  given  their  share." 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  185 

His  worst  sufferings  had  their  source  in  a  region  impenetrable 
to  the  visitations  of  mere  worldly  calamities ;  and  might  have 
been  even  more  direful,  had  his  life  basked  in  the  beams  of  for- 
tune, in  place  of  being  chilled  in  its  shade.  "  My  mind  my 
kingdom  is  " — few  men  have  had  better  title  to  make  that  boast 
than  Burns ;  but  sometimes  raged  there  plus  quam  civilia  hella — 
and  on  the  rebellious  passions,  no  longer  subjects,  at  times  it 
seemed  as  if  he  cared  not  to  impose  peace. 

Why,  then,  such  clamor  about  his  condition — such  outcry 
about  his  circumstances — such  horror  of  his  Excisemanship  ? 
Why  should  Scotland,  on  whose  "  brow  shame  is  ashamed  to 
sit,"  hang  down  her  head  when  bethinking  her  of  how  she  treat- 
ed him  1  Hers  the  glory  of  having  produced  Mm  ;  where  lies 
the  blame  of  his  penury,  his  soul's  trouble,  his  living  body's 
emaciation,  its  untimely  death  ? 

His  country  cried,  "  All  hail,  mine  own  inspired  Bard  !  "  and 
his  heart  was  in  heaven.  But  heaven  on  earth  is  a  mid-region 
not  unvisited  by  storms.  Divine  indeed  must  be  the' descending 
light,  but  the  ascending  gloom  may  be  dismal ;  in  imagination's 
airy  realms  the  Poet  cannot  forget  he  is  a  Man — his  passions 
pursue  him  thither — and  "  that  mystical  roof  fretted  with  golden 
fire,  why  it  appears  no  other  thing  to  them  than  a  foul  and  pes- 
tilent congregation  of  vapors."  The  primeval  curse  is  felt 
through  all  the  regions  of  being  ;  and  he  who  in  the  desire  of 
fame  having  merged  all  other  desires,  finds  himself  on  a  sudden 
in  its  blaze,  is  disappointed  of  his  spirit's  corresponding  trans- 
port, without  which  it  is  but  a  glare  ;  and  remembering  the  sweet 
calm  of  his  obscurity,  when  it  was  enlivened  not  disturbed  by 
soaring  aspirations,  would  fain  fly  back  to  its  secluded  shades 
and  be  again  his  own  lowly  natural  self  in  the  privacy  of  his 
own  humble  birth-place.  Something  of  this  kind  happened  to 
Burns.  He  was  soon  sick  of  the  dust  and  din  that  attended  him 
on  his  illumined  path  ;  and  felt  that  he  had  been  happier  at  Moss- 
giel  than  he  ever  was  in  the  Metropolis — when  but  to  relieve  his 
heart  of  its  pathos,  he  sung  in  the  solitary  field  to  the  mountain 
daisy,  than  when  to  win  applause,  on  the  crowded  street  he 
chanted  in  ambitious  strains — 


186  THE  GENIUS  AND 


"  Edina  !  Scotia's  darling  seat ! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  towers. 
Where  once  beneath  a  monarch's  feet 
Sat  legislation's  sov'reign  powers ! 
From  marking  wildly-scatter'd  flow'rs, 
^  As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I  stray'd, 

And  singing,  lone,  the  lingering  hours, 
I  shelter  in  thy  honor'd  shade." 

He  returned  to  his  natural  condition,  when  he  settled  at  Ellis- 
land.  Nor  can  we  see  what  some  have  seen,  any  strong  desire 
in  him  after  preferment  to  a  higher  sphere.  Such  thoughts 
sometimes  must  have  entered  his  mind,  but  they  found  no 
permanent  dwelling  there  ;  and  he  fell  back,  not  only  without 
pain,  but  with  more  than  pleasure,  on  all  the  remembrances  of 
his  humble  life.  He  resolved  to  pursue  it  in  the  same  scenes, 
and  the  same  occupations,  and  to  continue  to  be  what  he  had 
always  been — a  Farmer. 

And  why  should  the  Caledonian  Hunt  have  wished  to  divert 
or  prevent  him  ?  Why  should  Scotland  ?  What  patronage, 
pray  tell  us,  ought  the  Million  and  Two  Thirds  to  have  bestow- 
ed on  their  poet  ?  With  five  hundred  pounds  in  the  pockets  of 
his  buckskin  breeches,  perhaps  he  was  about  as  rich  as  yourself 
— and  then  he  had  a  mine — which  we  hope  you  have  too — in  his 
brain.  Something  no  doubt  might  have  been  done  for  him,  and 
if  you  insist  that  something  should,  we  are  not  in  the  humor  of 
argumentation,  and  shall  merely  observe  that  the  opportunities 
to  serve  him  were  somewhat  narrowed  by  the  want  of  special 
preparation  for  any  profession  ;  but  supposing  that  nobody  thought 
of  promoting  him,  it  was  simply  because  everybody  was  think- 
ing of  getting  promoted  himself;  and  though  selfishness  is  very 
odious,  not  more  so  surely  in  Scotsmen  than  in  other  people,  ex- 
cept indeed  that  more  is  expected  from  them  on  account  of  their 
superior  intelligence  and  virtue. 

Burns's  great  calling  here  below  was  to  illustrate  the  peasant 
life  of  Scotland.  Ages  may  pass  without  another  arising  fit  for 
that  task ;  meanwhile  the  whole  pageant  of  Scottish  life  has 
passed  away  without  a  record.  Let  him  remain,  therefore,  in 
the  place  which  best  fits  him  for  the  task,  though  it  may  not  be 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  187 

the  best  for  his  personal  comfort.  If  an  individual  can  serve 
his  country  at  the  expense  of  his  comfort,  he  must,  and  others 
should  not  hinder  him  ;  if  self-sacrifice  is  required  of  him,  they 
must  not  be  blamed  for  permitting  it.  Burns  followed  his  call- 
ing to  the  last,  with  more  lets  and  hindrances  than  the  friends 
of  humanity  could  have  wished ;  but  with  a  power  that  might 
have  been  weakened  by  his  removal  from  what  he  loved  and 
gloried  in — by  the  disruption  of  his  heart  from  its  habits,  and 
the  breaking  up  of  that  custom  which  with  many  men  becomes 
second  nature,  but  which  with  him  was  corroboration  and  sanc- 
tification  of  the  first,  both  being  but  one  agency — its  products 
how  beautiful !  Like  the  flower  and  fruit  of  a  tree  that  grows 
well  only  in  its  own  soil,  and  by  its  own  river. 

But  a  Ganger  !  What  do  we  say  to  that  ?  Was  it  not  most 
unworthy  ?  We  ask,  unworthy  what  ?  You  answer,  his  ge- 
nius.  But  who  expects  the  employments  by  which  men  live  to 
be  entirely  worthy  of  their  genius — congenial  with  their  dispo- 
sitions— suited  to  the  structure  of  their  souls  ?  It  sometimes 
happens,  but  far  oftener  not — rarely  in  the  case  of  poets,  and 
most  rarely  of  all  in  the  case  of  such  a  poet  as  Burns.  It  is  a 
law  of  nature  that  the  things  of  the  world  come  by  honest  in- 
dustry, and  that  genius  is  its  own  reward,  in  the  pleasure  of  its 
exertions  and  its  applause.  But  who  made  Burns  a  ganger  ? 
Himself.  It  was  his  own  choice.  "  I  have  been  feeling  all 
the  various  rotations  and  movements  within  respecting  the  ex- 
cise," he  writes  to  Aiken  soon  after  the  Kilmarnock  edition, 
'•  There  are  many  things  plead  strongly  against  it,"  he  adds, 
but  these  were  all  connected  with  his  unfortunate  private  affairs  ; 
to  the  calling  itself  he  had  no  repugnance  ;  what  he  most  feared 
was  "the  uncertainty  of  getting  soon  into  business."  To  Gra- 
ham of  Fintry  he  writes,  a  year  after  the  Edinburgh  edition, 
"  Ye  know,  I  dare  say,  of  an  application  I  lately  made  to  your 
Board  to  be  admitted  an  officer  of  excise.  I  have,  according  to 
form,  been  examined  by  a  supervisor,  and  to-day  I  gave  in  two 
certificates,  with  a  request  for  an  order  for  instructions.  In  this 
affair,  if  I  succeed,  I  am  afraid  I  shall  but  too  much  need  a  pa- 
tronizing friend.  Propriety  of  conduct  as  a  man,  and  fidelity 
and  attention  as  an  officer,  I  dare  engage  for  •  lut  with  anything 


188  THE  GE?>riUS  AND 


like  husiness,  except  manual  labor,  I  am  totally  unacquainted. 
*  *  I  know,  Sir,  that  to  need  your  goodness  is  to  have  a  claim 
on  it ;  may  1  therefore  beg  your  patronage  to  forward  me  in  this 
affair,  till  I  be  appointed  to  a  division,  where,  by  the  help  of 
rigid  economy,  I  will  try  to  support  that  independence  so  dear 
to  my  soul,  but  which  has  been  too  often  distant  from  my  situa- 
tion." To  Miss  Chalmers  he  writes,  "  You  will  condemn  me 
for  the  next  step  I  have  taken.  I  have  entered  into  the  excise. 
I  have  chosen  this,  my  dear  friend,  after  mature  deliberation. 
The  question  is  not  at  what  door  of  fortune's  palace  we  shall 
enter  in,  but  what  door  does  she  open  for  us  ?  I  got  this 
without  any  hanging  on,  or  mortifying  solicitation  :  it  is  imme- 
diate support,  and  though  poor  in  comparison  of  the  last  eighteen 
months  of  my  existence,  it  is  plenty  in  comparison  of  all  my 
preceding  life  ;  besides,  the  Commissioners  are  some  of  them  my 
acquaintance,  and  all  of  them  my  firm  friends."  To  Dr.  Moore 
he  writes,  "  There  is  still  one  thing  would  make  me  quite  easy. 
I  have  an  excise  officer's  commission,  and  I  live  in  the  midst  of 
a  country  division.  If  I  were  very  sanguine,  I  might  hope  that 
some  of  my  great  patrons  might  procure  me  a  treasury  warrant 
for  supervisor,  surveyor-general,  &c."  It  is  needless  to  multi- 
ply quotations  to  the  same  effect.  Burns  with  his  usual  good 
sense  took  into  account,  in  his  own  estimate  of  such  a  calling, 
not  his  genius,  which  had  really  nothing  to  do  with  it,  but  all 
his  early  circumstances,  and  his  present  prospects ;  nor  does  it 
seem  at  any  time  to  have  been  a  source  of  much  discomfort  to 
himself;  on  the  contrary,  he  looks  forward  to  an  increase  of  its 
emoluments  with  hope  and  satisfaction.  We  are  not  now  speaks 
ing  of  the  disappointment  of  his  hopes  of  rising  in  the  profes- 
sion, but  of  the  profession  itself:  "  A  supervisor's  income  varies," 
he  says,  in  a  letter  to  Heron  of  that  ilk,  '-from  about  a  hundred 
and  twenty  to  two  hundred  a  year ;  but  the  business  is  an  inces- 
sant drudgery,  and  would  be  nearly  a  complete  bar  to  every 
species  of  literary  pursuit.  The  moment  I  am  appointed  super- 
visor, I  may  be  nominated  on  the  collector's  list ;  and  this  is 
always  a  business  purely  of  political  patronage.  A  collectorship 
varies  much,  from  better  than  two  hundred  a  year  to  near  a 
thousand.     They  also  come  forward  by  precedency  on  the  list ; 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  189 

and  have,  besides  a  handsome  income,  a  life  of  complete  leisure. 
A  life  of  literary  leisure,  with  a  decent  competency,  is  the  sum- 
mit of  my  wishes."  With  such  views,  Burns  became  a  gauger 
as  well  as  a  farmer ;  we  can  see  no  degradation  in  his  having 
done  so — no  reason  why  whimpering  cockneys  should  continu- 
ally cry  "  Shame !  shame !  on  Scotland "  for  having  let 
"  Bunns  " — as  they  pronounce  him — adopt  his  own  mode  of  life. 
Allan  Cuninghame  informs  us  that  the  officers  of  excise  on  the 
Nith  were  then  a  very  superior  set  of  men  indeed  to  those  who 
now  ply  on  the  Thames.  Burns  saw  nothing  to  despise  in  honest 
men  who  did  their  duty  ;  he  could  pick  and  choose  among  them ; 
and  you  do  not  imagine  that  he  was  obliged  to  associate  exclu- 
sively or  intimately  with  ushers  of  the  rod.  Gangers  are  grega- 
rious, but  not  so  gregarious  as  barristers  and  bagmen.  The 
Club  is  composed  of  gauger,  shop-keeper,  schoolmaster,  surgeon, 
retired  merchant,  minister,  assistant-and-successor,  cidevant 
militia  captain,  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  Peninsula  with  a 
wooden-leg,  and  haply  a  horse-marine.  These  are  the  ordinary 
members ;  but  among  the  honorary  you  find  men  of  high  de- 
gree, squires  of  some  thousands,  and  baronets  of  some  hundreds 
a-year.  The  rise  in  that  department  has  been  sometimes  so  sud- 
den as  to  astonish  the  unexcised.  A  gauger,  of  a  very  few 
years'  standing,  has  been  known,  after  a  quarter's  supervisor- 
ship,  to  ascend  the  collector's — and  ere  this  planet  had  performed 
another  revolution  round  the  sun — the  Comptroller's  chair — 
from  which  he  might  well  look  down  on  the  Chancellor  of  Eng- 
land. 

Let  it  not  be  thought  that  we  are  running  counter  to  the  com- 
mon feeling  in  what  we  have  now  been  saying,  nor  blame  us  for 
speaking  in  a  tone  of  levity  on  a  serious  subject.  We  cannot 
bear  to  hear  people  at  one  hour  scorning  the  distinctions  of  rank, 
and  acknowledging  none  but  of  worth  ;  and  at  another  whining 
for  the  sake  of  worth  without  rank,  and  estimating  a  man's  hap- 
piness— which  is  something  more  than  his  respectability — by  the 
amount  of  his  income,  or  according  to  the  calling  from  which  it 
is  derived.  Such  persons  cannot  have  read  Burns.  Or  do  they 
think  that  such  sentiments  as  "  The  rank  is  but  the  guinea 
stamp,  the  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that,"  are  all  very  fine  in  verse, 


190  THE  GENIUS  AND 


but  have  no  place  in  the  prose  of  life,  no  application  among 
men  of  sense  to  its  concerns  ?  But  in  how  many  departments 
have  not  men  to  addict  themselves  almost  all  their  lives  to  the 
performance  of  duties,  which,  merely  as  acts  or  occupations,  are 
in  themselves  as  unintellectual  as  polishing  a  pin  ?  Why,  a 
pin-polisher  may  be  a  poet,  who  rounds  its  head  an  orator,  who 
sharpens  its  point  a  metaphysician.  Wait  his  time,  and  you 
hear  the  first  singing  like  a  nightingale  in  the  autumnal  season ; 
the  second  roaring  like  a  bull,  and  no  mistake ;  the  third,  in 
wandering  mazes  lost,  like  a  prisoner  trying  to  thread  the  Cretan 
labyrinth  without  his  clue.  Let  a  man  but  have  something  that 
he  must  do  or  starve,  nor  be  nice  about  its  nature ;  and  be  ye 
under  no  alarm  about  the  degradation  of  his  soul.  Let  him 
even  be  a  tailor ;  nay,  that  is  carrying  the  principle  too  far ; 
but  any  other  handicraft  let  him  for  short  hours — ten  out  of  the 
eighteen  (six  he  may  sleep)  for  three  score  years  and  ten — assi- 
duously cultivate,  or  if  fate  have  placed  him  in  a  ropery,  dog- 
gedly pursue ;  and  if  nature  have  given  him  genius,  he  will 
find  time  to  instruct  or  enchant  the  world  ;  if  but  goodness,  time 
to  benefit  it  by  his  example,  "  though  never  heard  of  half  a  mile 
from  home." 

Who  in  this  country,  if  you  except  an  occasional  statesman, 
take  their  places  at  once  in  the  highest  grade  of  their  calling  ? 
In  the  learned  professions,  what  obscurest  toil  must  not  the 
brightest  go  through  !  Under  what  a  pressure  of  mean  obser- 
vances  the  proudest  stoop  their  heads  !  The  color-ensign  in  a 
black  regiment  has  risen  to  be  colonel  in  the  Rifle-brigade. 
The  middy  in  a  gun-brig  on  the  African  station  has  commanded 
a  three-decker  at  Trafalgar.  Through  successive  grades  they 
must  all  go — the  armed  and  the  gowned  alike  ;  the  great  law  of 
advancement  holds  among  men  of  noble  and  of  ignoble  birth, 
not  without  exceptions  indeed  in  favor  of  family,  and  of  fortune 
too,  more  or  less  frequent,  more  or  less  flagrant — but  talent,  and 
integrity,  and  honor,  and  learning,  and  genius,  are  not  often 
heard  complaining  of  foul  play ;  if  you  deny  it,  their  triumph  is 
the  more  glorious,  for  generally  they  win  the  day,  and  when 
they  have  won  it — that  is,  risen  in  their  profession,  what  be- 
comes of  them  then  ?     Soldiers  or  civilians,  they  must  go  where 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  191 

they  are  ordered,  in  obedience  to  the  same  great  law  ;  they  ap- 
peal to  their  services  when  insisting  on  being  sent — and  in  some 
pestilential  climate  swift  death  benumbs 

"  Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd— 
Or  wak'd  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre." 

It  is  drudgery  to  sit  six,  or  eight,  or  ten  hours  a-day  as  a 
clerk  in  the  India-house ;  but  Charles  Lamb  endured  it  for  forty 
years,  not  without  much  headache  and  heartache  too,  we  dare 
say ;  but  Elia  shows  us  how  the  unwearied  flame  of  genius 
can  please  itself  by  playing  in  the  thickest  gloom  ;  how  fancy 
can  people  dreariest  vacancy  with  rarest  creatures  holding  com- 
munion in  quaintest  converse  with  the  finest  feelings  of  the 
thoughtful  heart — how  eyes  dim  with  poring  all  day  on  a  ledger, 
can  glisten  through  the  evening,  and  far  on  into  the  night,  with 
those  alternate  visitings  of  humor  and  of  pathos  that  for  a  while 
come  and  go  as  if  from  regions  in  the  spirit  separate  and  apart, 
but  ere  long  by  their  quiet  blending  persuade  us  to  believe  that 
their  sources  are  close  adjacent,  and  that  the  streams,  when  left 
to  themselves,  often  love  to  unite  their  courses,  and  to  flow  on 
together  with  merry  or  melancholy  music,  just  as  we  choose  to 
think  it,  as  smiles  may  be  the  order  of  the  hour,  or  as  we  may 
be  commanded  by  the  touch  of  some  unknown  power  within  us 
to  indulge  the  luxury  of  tears. 

Why,  then,  we  ask  again,  such  lamentation  for  the  fate  of 
Burns  ?  Why  should  not  he  have  been  left  to  make  his  own 
way  in  life  like  other  men  gifted  or  ungifted  ?  A  man  of  great 
genius  in  the  prime  of  life  is  poor.  But  his  poverty  did  not  for 
any  long  time  necessarily  affect  the  welfare  or  even  comfort  of 
the  poet,  and  therefore  created  no  obligation  on  his  country  to 
interfere  with  his  lot.  He  was  born  and  bred  in  an  humble  sta- 
tion— but  such  as  it  was,  it  did  not  impede  his  culture,  fame, 
or  service  to  his  people,  or  rightly  considered,  his  own  happi- 
ness ;  let  him  remain  in  it,  or  leave  it  as  he  will  and  can,  but 
there  was  no  obligation  on  others  to  take  him  out  of  it.  He  had 
already  risen  superior  to  circumstances — and  would  do  so  still  • 
his  glory  availed  much  in  having  conquered  them  ;  give  him 


192  THE  GENIUS  AND 


better,  and  the  peculiar  specie^  of  his  glory  will  depart.  Give 
him  better,  and  it  may  be,  that  he  achieves  no  more  glory  of 
any  kind.  For  nothing  is  more  uncertain  than  the  effects  of 
circumstances  on  character.  Some  men,  we  know,  are  specially 
adapted  to  adverse  circumstances,  rising  thereby  as  the  kite 
rises  to  the  adverse  breeze,  and  falling  when  the  adversity 
ceases.  Such  was  probably  Burns's  nature — his  genius  being 
piqued  to  activity  by  the  contradictions  of  his  fortune. 

Suppose  that  some  generous  rich  man  had  accidentally  be- 
come acquainted  with  the  lad  Robert  Burns,  and  grieving  to 
think  that  such  a  mind  should  continue  boorish  among  boors, 
had,  much  to  his  credit,  taken  him  from  the  plough,  sent  him  to 
College,  and  given  him  a  complete  education.  Doubtless  he 
would  have  excelled  ;  for  he  was  "  quick  to  learn,  and  wise  to 
know."  But  he  would  not  have  been  Scotland's  Burns.  The 
prodigy  had  not  been  exhibited  of  a  poet  of  the  first  order  in 
that  rank  of  life.  It  is  an  instructive  spectacle  for  the  world, 
and  let  the  instruction  take  effect  by  the  continuance  of  the  spec- 
tacle for  its  natural  period.  Let  the  poet  work  at  that  calling 
which  is  clearly  meant  for  him — he  is  "  native  and  endued  to 
the  element "  of  his  situation — there  is  no  appearance  of  his  be- 
ing alien  or  strange  to  it — he  professes  proudly  that  his  ambition 
is  to  illustrate  the  very  life  he  exists  in — his  happiest  moments 
are  in  doing  so — and  he  is  reconciled  to  it  by  its  being  thus 
blended  with  the  happiest  exertions  of  his  genius.  We  must 
look  at  his  lot  as  a  whole — from  beginning  to  end — and  so  looked 
at  it  was  not  unsuitable — but  the  reverse ;  for  as  to  its  later  af- 
flictions they  were  not  such  as  of  necessity  belonged  to  it,  were 
partly  owing  to  himself,  partly  to  others,  partly  to  evil  influences 
peculiar  not  to  his  calling,  but  to  the  times. 

If  Burns  had  not  been  prematurely  cut  off,  it  is  not  to  be 
doubted  that  he  would  have  got  promotion  either  by  favor,  or  in 
the  ordinary  course ;  and  had  that  happened,  he  would  not  have 
had  much  cause  for  complaint,  nor  would  he  have  complained 
that  like  other  men  he  had  to  wait  events,  and  reach  compe- 
tence or  affluence  by  the  usual  routine.  He  would,  like  other 
men,  have  then  looked  back  on  his  narrow  circumstances,  and 
their  privations,  as  conditions  which,  from  the  first,  he  knew 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS  193 

must  precede  preferment,  and  would  no  more  have  thought  such 
hardships  peculiar  to  his  lot,  than  the  first  lieutenant  of  a  frigate, 
the  rough  work  he  had  had  to  perform,  on  small  pay,  and  no 
delicate  mess  between  decks,  when  he  was  a  mate,  though  then 
perhaps  a  better  seaman  than  the  Commodore. 

With  these  sentiments  we  do  not  expect  that  all  who  honor 
this  Memoir  with  a  perusal  will  entirely  sympathize ;  but  im- 
perfect as  it  is,  we  have  no  fear  of  its  favorable  reception  by  our 
friends,  on  the  score  of  its  pervading  spirit.  As  to  the  poor 
creatures  who  purse  up  their  unmeaning  mouths,  trying  too 
without  the  necessary  feature  to  sport  the  supercilious — and  in- 
stead  of  speaking  daggers,  pip  pins  against  the  "  Scotch " — 
they  are  just  the  very  vermin  who  used  to  bite  Burns,  and  one 
would  pause  for  a  moment  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  to  impale 
a  dozen  of  them  on  one's  pen,  if  they  happened  to  crawl  across 
one's  paper.  But  our  Southern  brethren — the  noble  English — 
who  may  not  share  these  sentiments  of  ours — ^will  think  "  more 
in  sorrow  than  in  anger  "  of  Bums's  fate,  and  for  his  sake  will 
be  loth  to  blame  his  mother  land.  They  must  think  with  a  sigh 
of  their  own  Bloomfield,  and  Clare !  Our  Bums  indeed  was  a 
greater  far ;  but  they  will  call  to  mind  the  calamities  of  their 
men  of  genius,  of  discoverers  in  science,  who  advanced  the 
wealth  of  nations,  and  died  of  hunger — of  musicians  who  taught 
the  souls  of  the  people  in  angelic  harmonies  to  commerce  with 
heaven,  and  dropt  unhonored  into  a  hole  of  earth — of  painters 
who  glorified  the  very  sunrise  and  sunset,  and  were  buried  in 
places  for  a  long  time  obscure  as  the  shadow  of  oblivion — and 
surpassing  glory  and  shame  of  all — 

**  Or  MiGHTT  Poets  nr  their  misert  dead." 

We  never  think  of  the  closing  years  of  Bums's  life,  without 
feeling  what  not  many  seem  to  have  felt,  that  much  more  of 
their  unhappiness  is  to  be  attributed  to  the  most  mistaken  notion 
he  had  unfortimately  taken  up,  of  there  being  something  de- 
grading in  genius  in  writing  for  moneys  than  perhaps  to  all  other 
causes  put  together,  certainly  far  more  than  to  his  professional 
calling,  however  unsuitable  that  may  have  been  to  a  poet.  By 
14 


194  THE  GENIUS  AND 


persisting  in  a  line  of  conduct  pursuant  to  that  persuasion,  he 
kept  himself  in  perpetual  poverty ;  and  though  it  is  not  possible 
to  blame  him  severely  for  such  a  fault,  originating  as  it  did  in 
the  gerrerous  enthusiasm  of  the  poetical  character,  a  most  seri- 
ous fault  it  was,  and  its  consequences  were  most  lamentable. 
SSo  far  from  being  an  extravagant  man,  in  the  common  concerns 
of  life  he  observed  a  proper  parsimony ;  and  they  must  have 
been  careless  readers  indeed,  both  of  his  prose  and  verse,  who 
have  taxed  him  with  lending  the  colors  of  his  genius  to  set  off 
with  a  false  lustre  that  profligate  profuseness,  habitual  only  with 
the  selfish,  and  irreconcileable  with  any  steadfast  domestic  virtue. 

"  To  catch  dame  Fortune's  golden  smile, 

Assiduous  wait  upon  her ; 
And  gather  gear  by  every  wile 

That's  justified  by  honor  ; 
Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a  hedge. 

Nor  for  a  train  attendant ; 
But  for  the  glorious  privilege 

Of  being  Independent."  ^ 

Such  was  the  advice  he  gave  to  a  young  friend  in  1786,  and  in 
1789,  in  a  letter  to  Robert  Ainslie,  he  says,  "  Your  poets,  spend- 
thrifts, and  other  fools  of  that  kidney  pretend,  forsooth,  to  crack 
their  jokes  on  prudence — ^but  'tis  a  squalid  vagabond  glorying 
in  his  rags.  Still,  imprudence  respecting  money  matters  is 
much  more  pardonable  than  imprudence  respecting  character. 
I  have  no  objections  to  prefer  prodigality  to  avarice,  in  some  few 
instances :  but  I  appeal  to  your  own  observation  if  you  have  not 
often  met  with  the  same  disingenuousness,  the  same  hollow- 
hearted  insincerity,  and  disintegrative  depravity  of  principle,  in 
the  hackneyed  victims  of  profusion,  as  in  the  unfeeling  child- 
ren of  parsimony."  Similar  sentiments  will  recur  to  every  one 
familiar  with  his  writings — all  through  them  till  the  very  end. 
His  very  songs  are  full  of  them — many  of  the  best  impressively 
preaching  in  sweetest  numbers  industry  and  thrift.  So  was  he 
privileged  to  indulge  in  poetic  transports — to  picture,  without 
reproach,  the  genial  hours  in  the  poor  man's  life,  alas  I  but  too 
unfrequent,  and  therefore  to  be  enjoyed  with  a  lawful  revelry, 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  195 


at  once  obedient  to  the  iron-tongued  knell  that  commands  it  to 
cease.  So  was  he  justified  in  scorning  the  close-fisted  niggard- 
liness that  forces  up  one  finger  after  another,  as  if  chirted  by 
a  screw,  and  then  shows  to  the  pauper  a  palm  with  a  doit. 
"  Take  care  of  the  pennies,  and  the  pounds  will  take  care  of 
themselves,"  is  an  excellent  maxim  ;  but  we  do  not  look  for  illus- 
trations of  it  in  poetry ;  perhaps  it  is  too  importunate  in  prose. 
Full-grown  moralists  and  political  economists,  eager  to  promote 
the  virtue  and  the  wealth  of  nations,  can  study  it  scientifically 
in  Adam  Smith — but  the  boy  must  have  two  buttons  to  his  fob 
and  a  clasp,  who  would  seek  for  it  in  Robert  Burns.  The  bias 
of  poor  human  nature  seems  to  lean  sufficiently  to  self,  and  to 
require  something  to  balance  it  the  other  way  ;  what  more  ef- 
fectual  than  the  touch  of  a  poet's  finger  ?  We  cannot  relieve 
every  wretch  we  meet — yet  if  we  "  take  care  of  the  pennies," 
how  shall  the  hunger  that  beseeches  us  on  the  street  get  a  bap  ? 
If  we  let  "  the  pounds  take  care  of  themselves,"  hovv  shall  we 
answer  to  God  at  the  great  day  of  judgment — remembering 
how  often  we  had  let  "  unpitied  want  retire  to  die — "  the  white- 
faced  widow  pass  us  unrelieved,  in  faded  weeds  that  seemed  as 
if  they  were  woven  of  dust  ? 

In  his  poetry,  Burns  taught  love  and  pity ;  in  his  life  he  prac- 
tised them.  Nay,  though  seldom  free  from  the  pressure  of 
poverty,  so  ignorant  was  he  of  the  science  of  duty,  that  to  the 
very  last  he  was  a  notorious  giver  of  alms.  Many  an  impostor 
must  have  preyed  on  his  meal-girnel  at  Ellisland ;  perhaps  the 
old  sick  sailor  was  one,  who  nevertheless  repaid  several  weeks' 
board  and  lodging  with  a  cutter  one-foot  keel,  and  six  pound 
burthen,  which  young  Bobby  Burns — such  is  this  uncertain  word 
— grat  one  Sabbath  to  see  a  total  wreck  far  off"  in  the  mid-eddies 
of  the  mighty  Nith.  But  the  idiot  who  got  his  dole  from  the 
poet's  own  hand,  as  often  as  he  chose  to  come  churming  up  the 
Vennel,  he  was  no  impostor,  and  though  he  had  lost  his  wits, 
retained  a  sense  of  gratitude,  and  returned  a  blessing  in  such 
phrase  as  they  can  articulate  "whose  lives  are  hidden  with 
God." 

How  happened  it,  then,  that  such  a  man  was  so  neglectful  of 
his  wife  and  family,  as  to  let  their  hearts  often  ache  while  he 


196  THE  GENIUS  AND 


was  in  possession  of  a  productive  genius  that  might  so  easily 
have  procured  for  them  all  the  necessaries,  and  conveniences, 
and  some  even  of  the  luxuries  of  life  ?  By  the  Edinburgh  edi- 
tion  of  his  poems,  and  the  copyright  to  Creech,  he  had  made  a 
little  fortune,  and  we  know  how  well  he  used  it.  From  the  day 
of  his  final  settlement  with  that  money-making,  story-telling, 
magisterial  bibliopole,  who  rejoiced  for  many  years  in  the  name 
of  Provost — to  the  week  before  his  death,  his  poetry,  and  that 
too  sorely  against  his  will,  brought  him  in — ten  pounds  !  Had 
he  thereby  annually  earned  fifty — what  happy  faces  at  that  fire- 
side !  how  difierent  that  household !  comparatively  how  calm 
that  troubled  life ! 

All  the  poetry,  by  which  he  was  suddenly  made  so  famous,  had 
been  written,  as  you  know,  without  the  thought  of  money  having  so 
much  as  flitted  across  his  mind.  The  delight  of  embodying  in 
verse  the  visions  of  his  inspired  fancy — of  awakening  the  sympa- 
thies of  the  few  rustic  auditors  in  his  own  narrow  circle,  whose 
hearts  he  well  knew  throbbed  with  the  same  emotions  that  are  dear- 
est to  humanity  all  over  the  wide  world — tliat  had  been  at  first  all 
in  all  to  him — the  young  poet  exulting  in  his  power  and  in  the 
proof  of  his  power — till  as  the  assurance  of  his  soul  in  its  divine 
endowment  waxed  stronger  and  stronger  he  beheld  his  country's 
muse  with  the  holly-wreath  in  her  hand,  and  bowed  his  head  to 
receive  the  everlasting  halo.  "  And  take  thou  iliis  she  smiling 
said  " — that  smile  was  as  a  seal  set  on  his  fame  for  ever — 
and  "  in  the  old  clay  biggin "  he  was  happy  to  the  full 
measure  of  his  large  heart's  desire.  His  poems  grew  up  like 
flowers  before  his  tread — they  came  out  like  singing-birds 
from  the  thickets — they  grew  like  clouds  on  the  sky — there  they 
were  in  their  beauty,  and  he  hardly  knew  they  were  his  own — 
so  quiet  had  been  their  creation,  so  like  the  process  of  nature 
among  her  material  loveliness,  in  the  season  of  spring  when  life 
is  again  evolved  out  of  death,  and  the  renovation  seems  as  if  it 
would  never  more  need  the  Almighty  hand,  in  that  immortal 
union  of  earth  and  heaven. 

You  will  not  think  these  words  extravagant,  if  you  have  well 
considered  the  ecstasy  in  which  the  spirit  of  the  poet  was  lifted 
up  above  the  carking  cares  of  his  toilsome  life,  by  the  conscious- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  197 


ness  of  tlie  genius  that  had  been  given  him  to  idealize  it.  "  My 
heart  rejoiced  in  Nature's  joy "  he  says,  remembering  the 
beautiful  happiness  of  a  summer  day  reposing  on  the  woods  ; 
and  from  that  line  we  know  how  intimate  had  been  his  com- 
munion with  Nature  long  before  he  had  indited  to  her  a  single 
lay  of  love.  And  still  as  he  wandered  among  her  secret  haunts 
he  thought  of  her  poets — with  a  fearful  hope  that  he  might  one 
day  be  of  the  number — and  most  of  all  of  Ferguson  and  Ram- 
say, because  they  belonged  to  Scotland,  were  Scottish  in  all 
their  looks,  and  all  their  language,  in  the  very  habits  of  their 
bodies,  and  in  the  very  frames  of  their  souls — humble  names 
now  indeed  compared  with  his  own,  but  to  the  end  sacred  in  his 
generous  and  grateful  bosom  ;  for  at  "  The  Farmer's  Ingle  "  his 
imagination  had  kindled  into  the  "Cottar's  Saturday  Night;" 
in  the  "  Gentle  Shepherd  "  he  had  seen  many  a  happy  sight  that 
had  furnished  the  matter,  we  had  almost  said  inspired  the  emo- 
tion, of  some  of  his  sweetest  and  most  gladsome  songs.  In  his 
own  every-day  working  world  he  walked  as  a  man  contented 
with  the  pleasure  arising  in  his  mere  human  heart ;  but  that 
world  the  poet  could  purify  and  elevate  at  will  into  a  celestial 
sphere,  still  lightened  by  Scottish  skies,  still  melodious  with 
Scottish  streams,  still  inhabited  by  Scottish  life — sweet  as  reality 
— dear  as  truth — yet  visionary  as  fiction's  dream,  and  felt  to  be 
in  part  the  work  of  his  own  creation.  Proudly,  therefore,  on 
that  poorest  soil  the  peasant  poet  bade  speed  the  plough — proudly 
he  stooped  his  shoulders  to  the  sack  of  corn,  itself  a  cart-load — 
proudly  he  swept  the  scythe  that  swathed  the  flowery  herbage 
— proudly  he  grasped  the  sickle — but  tenderly  too  he  "  turned 
the  weeder  clips  aside,  and  spared  the  symbol  dear^ 

Well  was  he  entitled  to  say  to  his  friend  Aiken,  in  the  dedica- 
tory stanza  of  the  Cottar's  Saturday  Night : 

"  My  loved,  my  honored,  most  respected  friend  ! 
No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays  ; 
With  honest  pride  I  scorn  each  selfish  end. 
My  dearest  meed,  a  friend's  esteem  and  praise." 

All  that  he  hoped  to  make  by  the  Kilmarnock  edition  was  twent^^ 
pounds  to  carry  him  to  the  West  Indies,  heedless  of  the  yellow 


108  THE  GENIUS  AND 


fever.  At  Edinburgh  fortune  hand  in  hand  with  fame  descended 
on  the  bard  in  a  shower  of  gold  ;  but  he  had  not  courted  "  the 
smiles  of  the  fickle  goddess,"  and  she  soon  wheeled  away  with 
scornful  laughter  out  of  his  sight  for  ever  and  a  day.  His 
poetry  had  been  composed  in  the  fields,  with  not  a  plack  in  the 
pocket  of  the  poet ;  and  we  verily  believe  that  he  thought  no 
more  of  the  circulating  medium  than  did  the  poor  mouse  in 
whose  fate  he  saw  his  own — but  more  unfortunate  I 

"  Still  thou  art  blest  compared  wi'  me  ! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee  : 
But  och  !  I  backward  cast  my  e'e 

On  prospects  drear ! 
An'  forward,  though  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  and  year." 

At  Ellisland  his  colley  bore  on  his  collar,  "  Robert  Burns, 
poet ;"  and  on  his  removal  to  Dumfries,  we  know  that  he  in- 
dulged the  dream  of  devoting  all  his  leisure  time  to  poetry — a 
dream  how  imperfectly  realized  !  Poor  Johnson,  an  old  Edin- 
burgh friend,  begged  in  his  poverty  help  to  his  "  Museum,"  and 
Thomson,  not  even  an  old  Edinburgh  acquaintance,  in  his  pride 
— 'no  ignoble  pride — solicited  it  for  his  "  Collection  ;"  and  fired 
by  the  thought  of  embellishing  the  body  of  Scottish  song,  he 
spurned  the  gentle  and  guarded  proffer  of  remuneration  in 
money,  and  set  to  work  as  he  had  done  of  yore  in  the  spirit  of 
love,  assured  from  sweet  experience  that  inspiration  was  its  own 
reward.  Sell  a  song  !  as  well  sell  a  wild-flower  plucked  from  a 
spring-bank  at  sun-rise.  The  one  pervading  feeling  does  indeed 
expand  itself  in  a  song,  like  a  wild  flower  in  the  breath  and  dew 
of  morning,  which  before  was  but  a  bud,  and  we  are  touched 
with  a  new  sense  of  beauty  at  the  full  disclosure.  As  a  song 
should  always  be  simple,  the  flower  we  liken  it  to  is  the  lily  or 
the  violet.  The  leaves  of  the  lily  are  white,  but  it  is  not  a 
monotonous  whiteness — the  leaves  of  the  violet,  sometimes  "  dim 
as  the  lids  of  Cytherea's  eyes  " — for  Shakspeare  has  said  so — 
are,  when  well  and  happy,  blue  as  her  eyes  themselves,  while 
they  looked  languishingly  on  Adonis.  Yet  the  exquisite  color 
seems  of  different  shades  in  its  rarest  richness ;  and  even  so  as 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  199 

lily  or  violet  shiftingly  the  same,  should  be  a  song  in  its  simpli- 
city, variously  tinged  with  fine  distinctions  of  the  one  color  of 
that  pervading  feeling — now  brighter,  now  dimmer,  as  open  and 
shut  the  valve  of  that  mystery,  the  heart.  Sell  a  song  !  No — 
no — said  Burns — "  You  shall  have  hundreds  for  nothing — and 
we  shall  all  sail  down  the  stream  of  time  together,  now  to  merry, 
and  now  to  sorrowful  music,  and  the  dwellers  on  its  banks,  as 
we  glide  by,  shall  bless  us  by  name,  and  call  us  of  the  Immor- 
tals." 

It  was  in  this  way  that  Burns  was  beguiled  by  the  remem- 
brance of  the  inspirations  of  his  youthful  prime,  into  the  belief 
that  it  would  be  absolutely  sordid  to  write  songs  for  money ;  and 
thus  he  continued  for  years  to  enrich  others  by  the  choicest  pro- 
ducts of  his  genius,  himself  remaining  all  the  while,  alas !  too 
poor.     The  richest  man  in  the  town  was  not  more  regular  in  the 
settlement  of  his  accounts,  but  sometimes  on  Saturday  nights  he 
had  not  wherewithal  to  pay  the  expenses  of  the  week's  subsist- 
ence, and  had  to  borrow  a  pound  note.     He  was  more  ready  to 
lend  one,  and  you  know  he  died  out  of  debt.     But  his  family 
suffered  privations  it  is  sad  to  think  of — though  to  be  sure  the 
children  were  too  young  to  grieve,  and  soon  fell  asleep,  and 
Jean  was  a  cheerful  creature,  strong  at  heart,  and  proud  of  her 
famous  Robin,  the  Poet  of  Scotland,  whom  the  whole  world  ad- 
mired, but  she  alone  loved,  and  so  far  from  ever  upbraiding  him, 
welcomed  him  at  all  hours  to  her  arms  and  to  her  heart.     It  is 
all  very  fine  talking  about  the  delight  he  enjoyed  in  the  compo- 
sition of  his  matchless  lyrics,  and  the  restoration  of  all  those 
faded  and   broken    songs  of  other  ages,  burnished  by  a  few 
touches  of  his  hand  to  surpassing  beauty  ;  but  what  we  lament 
is,  that  with  the  Poet  it  was  not  "  No  song,  no  supper,"  but  "  No 
supper  for  any  song  " — that  with  an  infatuation  singular  even 
in  the  history  of  the  poetic  tribe,  he  adhered  to  what  he  had  re- 
solved, in  the  face  of  distress  which,  had  he  chosen  it,  he  could 
have  changed  into  comfort,  and  by  merely  doing  so  as  all  others 
did,  have  secured  a  competency  to  his  wife  and  children.     In- 
fatuation !     It  is  too  strong  a  word — therefore  substitute  some 
other  weaker  in  expression  of  blame — nay,  let  it  be — if  so  you 
will — some  gentle  term  of  praise  and  of  pity  ;  for  in  this  most 


200  THE  GENIUS  AND 


selfish  world,  'tis  so  rare  to  be  of  self  utterly  regardless,  that 
the  scorn  of  pelf  may  for  a  moment  be  thought  a  virtue,  even 
when  indulged  to  the  loss  of  the  tenderly  beloved.  Yet  the 
great  natural  affections  have  their  duties  superior  over  all 
others  between  man  and  man  ;  and  he  who  sets  them  aside,  in 
the  generosity  or  the  joy  of  genius,  must  frequently  feel  that  by 
such  dereliction  he  has  become  amenable  to  conscience,  and  in 
hours  when  enthusiasm  is  tamed  by  reflection,  cannot  escape  the 
tooth  of  remorse. 

How  it  would  have  kindled  all  his  highest  powers,  to  have  felt 
assured  that  by  their  exercise  in  the  Poet's  own  vocation  he 
could  not  only  keep  want  from  his  door  "  with  stern  alarum  ban- 
ishing sweet  sleep,"  but  clothe,  lodge,  and  board  "  the  wife  and 
weans,"  as  sumptuously  as  if  he  had  been  an  absolute  super- 
visor !  In  one  article  alone  was  he  a  man  of  expensive  habits — 
it  was  quite  a  craze  with  him  to  have  his  Jean  dressed  genteelly 
— for  she  had  a  fine  figure,  and  as  she  stepped  along  the  green, 
you  might  have  taken  the  matron  for  a  maid,  so  light  her  foot,  so 
animated  her  bearing,  as  if  care  had  never  imposed  any  burden 
on  her  not  ungraceful  shoulders  heavier  than  the  milk -pail  she 
had  learned  at  Mossgiel  to  bear  on  her  head.  'Tis  said  that  she 
was  the  first  in  her  rank  at  Dumfries  to  sport  a  gingham  gown, 
and  Burns's  taste  in  ribands  had  been  instructed  by  the  rain- 
bow. To  such  a  pitch  of  extravagance  had  he  carried  his  craze 
that  when  dressed  for  church,  Mrs.  Burns,  it  was  conjectured, 
could  not  have  had  on  her  person  much  less  than  the  value  of 
two  pounds  sterling  money,  and  the  boys,  from  their  dress  and 
demeanor,  you  might  have  mistaken  for  a  gentleman's  sons. 
Then  he  resolved  they  should  have  the  best  education  going ; 
and  the  Hon.  the  Provost,  the  Bailies,  and  Town  Council,  he  pe- 
titioned thus :  "  The  literary  taste  and  liberal  spirit  of  your  good 
town  have  so  ably  filled  the  various  departments  of  your  schools, 
as  to  make  it  a  very  great  object  for  a  parent  to  have  his  chil- 
dren educated  in  them ;  still,  to  me  a  stranger,  with  my  large 
family,  and  very  stinted  income,  to  give  my  young  ones  that  edu- 
cation I  wish,  at  the  high  school  fees  which  a  stranger  pays, 
will  bear  hard  upon  me.  Some  years  ago  your  good  town  did 
me  the  honor  of  making  me  an  honorary  burgess,  will  you  then 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  201 


allow  me  to  request,  that  this  mark  of  distinction  may  extend  so 
far  as  to  put  me  on  a  footing  of  a  real  freeman  in  the  schools  ?'* 
Had  not  *'  his  income  been  so  stinted,"  we  know  how  he  would 
have  spent  it. 

Then  the  world — the  gracious  and  grateful  world — "  wonder- 
ed and  of  wondering  found  no  end,"  how  and  why  it  happened 
that  Burns  was  publishing  no  more  poems.  What  was  he  about  ? 
Had  his  genius  deserted  him  ?  Was  the  vein  wrought  out  ?  of 
fine  ore  indeed,  but  thin,  and  now  there  was  but  rubbish.  His 
contributions  to  Johnson  were  not  much  known,  and  but  some 
six  of  his  songs  in  the  first  half  part  of  Thomson  appeared 
during  his  life.  But  what  if  he  had  himself  given  to  the  world, 
through  the  channel  of  the  regular  trade,  and  for  his  own  be- 
hoof, in  Parts,  or  all  at  once,  Those  Two  Hundred  and  Fifty 
Songs — new  and  old— -original  and  restored — with  all  those  dis- 
quisitions, annotations,  and  ever  so  many  more,  themselves  oflen 
very  poetry  indeed — what  would  the  world  have  felt,  thought, 
said,  and  done  then  ?  She  would  at  least  not  have  believed  that 
the  author  of  the  Cottar's  Saturday  Night  was — a  drunkard- 
And  what  would  Burns  have  felt,  thought,  said,  and  done  then  ? 
He  would  have  felt  that  he  was  turning  his  divine  gift  to  a  sacred 
purpose — he  would  have  thought  well  of  himself,  and  in  that  just 
appreciation  there  would  have  been  peace — he  would  have  said 
thousands  on  thousands  of  high  and  noble  sentiments  in  discourses 
and  in  letters,  with  an  untroubled  voice  and  a  steady  pen,  the 
sweet  persuasive  eloquence  of  the  happy — he  would  have  done 
greater  things  than  it  had  before  entered  into  his  heart  to  con- 
ceive— his  drama  of  the  Bruce  would  have  come  forth  magni- 
ficent from  an  imagination  elevated  by  the  joy  that  was  in  his 
heart — his  Scottish  Georgics  would  have  written  themselves, 
and  would  have  been  pure  Virgilian — Tale  upon  Tale,  each  a 
day's  work  or  a  week's,  would  have  taken  the  shine  out  of  Tarn 
o'  Shanter. 

And  here  it  is  incumbent  on  us  to  record  our  sentiments  re- 
garding Mr.  Thomson's  conduct  towards  Burns  in  his  worst  ex- 
tremity, which  has  not  only  been  assailed  by  "  anonymous  scrib- 
blers," whom  perhaps  he  may  rightly  regard  with  contempt ; 
but  as  he  says  in  Lis  letter  to  our  esteemed  friend,  the  ingenious 


202  THE  GENIUS  AND 


and  energetic  Robert  Chambers,  to  "  his  great  surprise,  by  some 
writers  who  might  have  been  expected  to  possess  sufficient  judg- 
ment to  see  the  matter  in  its  true  light." 

In  the  "  melancholy  letter  received  through  Mrs.  Hyslop,"  as 
Mr.  Thomson  well  calls  it,  dated  April,  Burns  writes,  "  Alas ! 
my  dear  Thomson,  I  fear  it  will  be  some  time  before  I  tune  my 
lyre  again.  '  By  Babel  streams  I  have  sat  and  wept,'  almost 
ever  since  I  wrote  you  last  (in  February,  when  he  thanked  Mr. 

Thomson  for  *  a  handsome  elegant  present  to  Mrs.  B ,'  we 

believe  a  worsted  shawl).  I  have  only  known  existence  by  the 
pressure  of  the  heavy  hand  of  sickness,  and  have  counted  time 
but  by  the  repercussions  of  pain.  Rheumatism,  cold,  and  fever, 
have  formed  to  me  a  terrible  combination.  I  close  my  eyes  in 
misery,  and  open  them  without  hope."  In  his  answer  to  that 
letter,  dated  4th  May,  Mr.  Thomson  writes,  "  I  need  not  tell 
you,  my  good  sir,  what  concern  your  last  gave  me,  and  how 
much  I  sympathize  in  your  sufferings.  But  do  not,  I  beseech 
you,  give  yourself  up  to  despondency,  nor  speak  the  language  of 
despair.  The  vigor  of  your  constitution,  I  trust,  will  spon  set 
you  on  your  feet  again  ;  and  then  it  is  to  he  hoped  you  will  see 
the  wisdom  of  taking  due  care  of  a  life  so  valuable  to  your  family, 
to  your  friends,  and  to  the  world.  Trusting  that  your  next  will 
bring  agreeable  accounts  of  your  convalescence,  and  good  spirits, 
I  remain  with  sincere  regard,  yours."  This  is  kind  as  it  should 
be ;  and  the  advice  given  to  Burns  is  good,  though  perhaps, 
under  the  circumstances,  it  might  just  as  well  have  been  spared. 
In  a  subsequent  letter  without  date,  Burns  writes,  "  I  have  great 
hopes  that  the  genial  influence  of  the  approaching  summer  will 
set  me  to  rights,  but  as  yet  I  cannot  boast  of  returning  health. 
I  have  now  reason  to  believe  that  my  complaint  is  a  flying  gout ; 
a  sad  business."  Then  comes  that  most  heart-rending  letter,  in 
which  the  dying  Burns,  in  terror  of  a  jail,  implores  the  i  oan  of 
five  pounds — and  the  well-known  reply.  "  Ever  since  I  received 
your  melancholy  letter  by  Mrs.  Hyslop,  I  have  been  ruminating 
in  what  manner  I  could  endeavor  to  alleviate  your  sufferings,'' 
and  so  on.  Shorter  rumination  than  of  three  months  might,  one 
would  think,  have  sufficed  to  mature  some  plan  for  the  alleviation 
of  such  sufferings,  and  human  ingenuity  has  been  more  severely 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  203 

taxed  than  it  would  have  been  in  devising  means  to  carry  it  into 
efTect.  The  recollection  of  a  letter  written  three  years  before, 
when  the  Poet  was  in  high  health  and  spirits,  needed  not  to  have 
stayed  his  hand.  ''  The  fear  of  offending  your  independent 
spirit/'  seems  a  bugbear  indeed.  "With  great  pleasure  I 
enclose  a  draft  for  the  very  sum  I  had  proposed  sending ! ! 
Would  I  were  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  but  for  one  day 
for  your  sake  ! ! ! " 

Josiah  Walker,  however,  to  whom  Mr.  Thomson  gratefully 
refers,  says,  "  a  few  days  before  Burns  expired,  he  applied  to 
Mr.  Thomson  for  a  loan  of  £5,  in  a  note  which  showed  the  irri- 
table and  distracted  state  of  his  mind,  and  his  commendable 
judgment  instantly  remitted  the  precise  sum,  foreseeing  that  had 
he,  at  that  moment,  presumed  to  exceed  that  request,  he  would 
have  exasperated  the  irritation  and  resentment  of  the  haughty 
invalid,  and  done  him  more  injury,  by  agitating  his  passions, than 
could  be  repaired  by  administering  more  largely  to  his  wants." 
Haughty  invalid !  Alas  !  he  was  humble  enough  now.  "  After 
all  my  boasted  independence,  stern  necessity  compels  me  to  implore 
you  for  five  pounds .'"  Call  not  that  a  pang  of  pride.  It  is  the 
outcry  of  a  wounded  spirit  shrinking  from  the  last  worst  arrow 
of  affliction.  In  one  breath  he  implores  succor  and  forgiveness 
from  the  man  to  whom  he  had  been  a  benefactor.  "  Forgive  me 
this  earnestness — but  the  horrors  of  a  jail  have  made  me  half 
distracted.  Forgive  me  !  Forgive  me  !  "  He  asks  no  gift — he 
but  begs  to  borrow — ^and  trusts  to  the  genius  God  had  given  him 
for  ability  to  repay  the  loan ;  nay,  he  encloses  his  last  song, 
"  Fairest  Maid  on  Devon's  banks,"  as  in  part  payment!  But 
oh  !  save  Robert  Burns  from  dying  in  prison.  What  hauteur ! 
And  with  so  "  haughty  an  invalid,"  how  shall  a  musical  brother 
deal,  so  as  not  "  to  exasperate  his  irritation  and  resentment," 
and  do  him  "  more  injury  by  agitating  his  passions,  than  could 
be  repaired  by  administering  more  largely  to  his  wants  ?  More 
largely  t  Faugh  !  faugh !  Foreseeing  that  he  who  was  half- 
mad  at  the  horrors  of  a  jail,  would  go  wholly  mad  were  ten 
pounds  sent  to  him  instead  of  five,  which  was  all  "  the  haughty 
invalid  "  had  implored,  "  with  commendable  judgment,"  accord, 
ing  to  Josiah  Walker's  philosophy  of  human  life,  George  Thom- 


u..  ,,.iji,pip,f . 


204  THE  GENIUS  AND 

son  sent  "  the  precise  sum  !"  And  supposing  it  had  gone  into 
the  pocket  of  the  merciless  haberdasher,  on  what  did  Josiah 
Walker  think  would  "  the  haughty  invalid"  have  subsisted  then 
— how  paid  for  lodging  without  board  by  the  melancholy  Sol- 
way-side  ? 

Mr.  Thomson's  champion  proceeds  to  say — ''  Burns  had  all 
the  unmanageable  pride  of  Samuel  Johnson,  and  if  the  latter 
threw  away  with  indignation  the  new  shoes  which  had  heen  placed 
at  his  chamber  door,  secretly  and  collectively  by  his  companions, 
the  former  would  have  been  still  more  ready  to  resent  any  pecu- 
niary donation  which  a  single  individual,  after  his  peremp- 
tory prohibition,  should  avowedly  have  dared  to  insult  him  with." 
InBoswell  we  read — "  Mr.  Bateman's  lectures  were  so  excellent 
that  Johnson  used  to  come  and  get  them  at  second-hand  from 
Taylor,  till  his  poverty  being  so  extreme,  that  his  shoes  were 
worn  out,  and  his  feet  appeared  through  them,  he  saw  that  his 
humiliating  condition  was  perceived  by  the  Christ-Church  men, 
and  he  came  no  more.  He  was  too  proud  to  accept  of  money, 
and  somebody  having  set  a  pair  of  new  shoes  at  his  door,  he 
threw  them  away  with  indignation."  Hall,  Master  of  Pem- 
broke,  in  a  note  on  this  passage,  expresses  strong  doubts  of 
Johnson's  poverty  at  college  having  been  extreme  ;  and  Croker, 
with  his  usual  accuracy,  says,  "  authoritatively  and  circumstan- 
tially as  this  story  is  told,  there  is  good  reason  for  disbelieving  it 
altogether.  Taylor  was  admitted  Commoner  of  Christ-Church, 
June  27,  1720  ;  Johnson  left  Oxford  six  months  before."  Sup- 
pose it  true.  Had  Johnson  found  the  impudent  cub  in  the  act  of 
depositing  the  eleemosynary  shoes,  he  infallibly  would  have 
knocked  him  down  with  fist  or  folio  as  clean  as  he  afterwards  did 
Osborne.  But  Mr.  Thomson  was  no  such  cub,  nor  did  he  stand 
relatively  to  Burns  in  the  same  position  as  such  cub  to  Johnson. 
He  owed  Burns  much  money — though  Burns  would  not  allow 
himself  to  think  so  ;  and  had  he  expostulated,  with  open  heart 
and  hand,  with  the  Bard  on  his  obstinate — he  might  have  kindly 
said  foolish  and  worse  than  foolish  disregard  not  only  of  his  own 
interest,  but  of  the  comfort  of  his  wife  and  family — had  he  gone 
to  Dumfries  for  the  sole  purpose — who  can  doubt  that  "  his  jus- 
tice and  generosity  "  would  have  been  crowned  with  success  ? 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  205 

Who  but  Josiah  Walker  could  have  said,  that  Burns  would 
have  then  thought  himself  insulted  ?  Resent  a  "  pecuniary 
donation"  indeed!  What  is  a  donation?  Johnson  tells  us  in 
the  words  of  South  ;  "  After  donation  there  is  an  absolute  change 
and  alienation  made  of  the  property  of  the  thing  given ;  which, 
being  alienated,  a  man  has  no  more  to  do  with  it  than  with  a 
thing  bought  with  another's  money."  It  was  Burns  who  made  a 
donation  to  Thomson  of  a  hundred  and  twenty  songs. 

All  mankind  must  agree  with  Mr.  Lockhart  when  he  says — 
"  Why  Burns,  who  was  of  opinion,  when  he  wrote  his  letter  to 
Mr.  Carfrae,  that '  no  profits  were  more  honorable  than  those  of 
the  labors  of  a  man  of  genius,'  and  whose  own  notions  of  inde- 
pendence had  sustained  no  shock  in  the  receipt  of  hundreds  of 
pounds  from  Creech,  should  have  spurned  the  suggestion  of  pe- 
cuniary recompense  from  Mr.  Thomson,  it  is  no  easy  matter  to 
explain  ;  nor  do  I  profess  to  understand  why  Mr.  Thomson  took 
so  little  pains  to  argue  the  matter  in  limine  with  the  poet,  and 
convince  him  that  the  time  which  he  himself  considered  as  fairly 
entitled  to  be  paid  for  by  a  common  bookseller,  ought  of  right  to 
be  valued  and  acknowledged  by  the  editor  and  proprietor  of  a 
book  containing  both  songs  and  music."  We  are  not  so  much 
blaming  the  backwardness  of  Thomson  in  the  matter  of  the  songs, 
as  we  are  exposing  the  blather  of  Walker  in  the  story  of  the 
shoes.  Yet  something  there  is  in  the  nature  of  the  whole  trans- 
action that  nobody  can  stomach.  We  think  we  have  in  a  great 
measure  explained  how  it  happened  that  Burns  "  spurned  the 
suggestion  of  pecuniary  recompense  ;"  and  bearing  our  remarks 
in  mind,  look  for  a  moment  at  the  circumstances  of  the  case. 
Mr.  Thomson,  in  his  first  letter,  September,  1792,  says,  '^Profit 
is  quite  a  secondary  consideration  with  us,  and  we  are  resolved  to 
spare  neither  pains  nor  expense  on  the  publication."  "  We 
shall  esteem  your  poetical  assistance  a  particular  favor,  besides 
paying  any  reasonable  price  you  shall  please  demand  for  it." 
And  would  Robert  Burns  condescend  to  receive  money  for  his 
contributions  to  a  work  in  honor  of  Scotland,  undertaken  by  men 
with  whom  "  profit  was  quite  a  secondary  consideration  ?"  Im- 
possible. In  July.,  1793,  when  Burns  had  been  for  nine  months 
enthusiastically  co-operating  in  a  great  national  work,  and  had 


206  THE  GENIUS  AND 


proved  that  he  would  carry  it  on  to  a  triumphant  close,  Mr. 
Thomson  writes — "  I  cannot  express  how  much  I  am  obliged  to 
you  for  the  exquisite  new  songs  you  are  sending  me  ;  but  thanks, 
my  friend,  are  a  poor  return  for  what  you  have  done.  As  I 
shall  be  benefited  by  the  publication,  you  must  suffer  me  to  in- 
close a  small  mark  of  my  gratitude,  and  to  repeat  it  afterwards 
wTien  I  find  it  convenient.  Do  not  return  it — for  by  heaven  if 
you  do,  our  correspondence  is  at  an  end."  A  bank-note  for  five 
pounds  !  "  In  the  name  of  the  prophet — Figs  !  Burns,  with  a 
proper  feeling,  retained  the  trifle,  but  forbad  the  repetition  of  it; 
and  everybody  must  see,  at  a  glance,  that  such  a  man  could  not 
have  done  otherwise — for  it  would  have  been  most  degrading  in- 
deed had  he  shown  himself  ready  to  accept  a  five  pound  note 
when  it  might  happen  to  suit  the  convenience  of  an  Editor.  His 
domicile  was  not  in  Grub-street. 

Mr.  Walker,  still  further  to  soothe  Mr.  Thomson's  feelings, 
sent  him  an  extract  from  a  letter  of  Lord  Woodhouselee's — "  I 
am  glad  that  you  have  embraced  the  occasion  which  lay  in  your 
way  of  doing  full  justice  to  Mr.  George  Thomson,  who  I  agree 
with  you  in  thinking,  was  most  harshly  and  illiberally  treated  by 
an  anonymous  dull  calumniator.  I  have  always  regarded  Mr. 
Thomson  as  a  man  of  great  worth  and  most  respectable  charac- 
ter ;  and  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  that  poor  Burns  felt 
himself  as  much  indebted  to  his  good  counsels  and  active  friend- 
ship as  a  man,  as  the  public  is  sensible  he  was  to  his  good  taste  and 
judgment  as  a  critic.'^  Mr.  Thomson,  in  now  giving,  for  the  first 
time,  this  extract  to  the  public,  says,  "  Of  the  unbiassed  opinion 
of  such  a  highly  respectable  gentleman  and  accomplished  wri- 
ter as  Lord  Woodhouselee,  I  certainly  feel  not  a  little  proud. 
It  is  of  itself  more  than  sufficient  to  silence  the  calumnies  by 
which  I  have  been  assailed,  first  anonymously,  and  afterwards, 
to  my  great  surprise,  by  some  writers  who  might  have  been  ex- 
pected to  possess  sufficient  judgment  to  see  the  matter  in  its  true 
light."  He  has  reason  to  feel  proud  of  his  Lordship's  good  opi- 
nion,  and  on  the  ground  of  his  private  character  he  deserved  it. 
But  the  assertions  contained  in  the  extract  have  no  bearing 
whatever  on  the  question,  and  they  are  entirely  untrue.  Lord 
Woodhouselee  could  have  had  no  authority  for  believing,  "  that 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  207 

poor  Burns  felt  himself  indebted  to  Mr.  Thomson's  good  counsels 
and  active  friendship  as  a  man."  Mr.  Thomson,  a  person  of  no 
influence  or  account,  had  it  not  in  his  power  to  exert  any  "  active 
friendship  "  for  Burns — and  as  to  "  good  counsels,"  it  is  not  to  be 
believed  for  a  moment,  that  a  modest  man  like  him,  who  had 
never  interchanged  a  word  with  Burns,  would  have  presumed 
to  become  his  Mentor.  This  is  putting  him  forward  in  the  high 
character  of  Burns's  benefactor,  not  only  in  his  worldly  con- 
cerns, but  in  his  moral  well-being ;  a  position  which  of  himself 
he  never  could  have  dreamt  of  claiming,  and  from  which  he 
must,  on  a  moment's  consideration,  with  pain  inexpressible  re- 
coil. Neither  is  "  the  public  sensible  "  that  Burns  was  "  indebt- 
ed to  his  good  taste  and  judgment  as  a  critic."  The  public 
kindly  regard  Mr.  Thomson,  and  think  that  in  his  correspondence 
with  Burns  he  makes  a  respectable  §gure.  But  Burns  repudi- 
ated most  of  his  critical  strictures ;  and  the  worthy  Clerk  of 
the  Board  of  Trustees  does  indeed  frequently  fall  into  sad  mis- 
takes, concerning  alike  poetry,  music,  and  painting.  Lord 
Woodhouselee's  "unbiassed  opinion,"  then,  so  far  from  being  of 
itself  "  sufficient  to  silence  the  calumnies  of  ignorant  assailants, 
&c.,"  is  not  worth  a  straw. 

Mr.  Thomson,  in  his  five  pound  letter,  asks — "  Pray,  my  good 
sir,  is  it  not  possible  for  you  to  muster  a  volume  of  poetry  ?"  Why, 
with  the  assistance  of  Messrs.  Johnson  and  Thomson,  it  would 
have  been  possible  ;  and  then  Burns  might  have  called  in  his 
"Jolly  Beggars."  "If  too  much  trouble  to  you,"  continues 
Mr.  Thomson,  "  in  the  present  state  of  your  health,  some  literary 
friend  might  be  found  here  who  would  select  and  arrange  your 
manuscripts,  and  take  upon  him  the  task  of  editor.  In  the 
meantime,  it  could  be  advertised  to  be  published  by  subscrip- 
tion. Do  not  shun  this  mode  of  obtaining  the  value  of  your 
labor  ;  remember  Pope  published  the  Iliad  by  subscription." 
Why,  had  not  Burns  published  his  own  poems  by  subscription  \ 
All  this  seems  the  strangest  mockery  ever  heard  of;  yet  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  it  was  written  not  only  with  a  serious  face, 
but  with  a  kind  heart.  But  George  Thomson  at  that  time  was 
almost  as  poor  a  man  as  Robert  Burns.  Allan  Cuninghame,  a 
man  of  genius  and  virtue,  in  his  interesting  Life  of  Burns,  has  in 


808  THE  GENIUS  AND 


his  characteristic  straight- forward  style  put  the  matter — in  as 
far  as  regards  the  money  remittance — in  its  true  light,  and  all 
Mr.  Thomson's  friends  should  be  thankful  to  him — "  Thomson 
instantly  complied  with  the  request  of  Burns ;  he  borrowed  a 
five-pound  note  from  Cunningham  (a  draft),  and  sent  it  saying, 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  inclose  the  identical  sum  the  poet 
had  asked  for,  when  he  received  his  letter.  For  this  he  has 
been  sharply  censured  ;  and  his  defence  is,  that  he  was  afraid  of 
sending  more,  lest  he  should  offend  the  pride  of  the  poet,  who 
was  uncommonly  sensitive  in  pecuniary  matters.  A  better  de- 
fence is  Thomson's  own  poverty ;  only  one  volume  of  his  splen- 
did work  was  then  published ;  his  outlay  had  been  beyond  his 
means,  and  very  small  sums  of  money  had  come  in  to  cover  his 
large  expenditure.  Had  he  been  richer,  his  defence  would  have 
been  a  difficult  matter.  When  Burns  made  the  stipulation,  his 
hopes  were  high,  and  the  dread  of  hunger  or  of  the  jail  was  far 
from  his  thoughts ;  he  imagined  that  it  became  genius  to  refuse 
money  in  a  work  of  national  importance.  But  his  situation 
grew  gloomier  as  he  wrote  ;  he  had  lost  nearly  his  all  in  Ellis- 
land,  and  was  obliged  to  borrow  small  sums,  which  he  found  a 
difficulty  in  repaying.  That  he  was  in  poor  circumstances  was 
well  known  to  the  world ;  and  had  money  been  at  Thomson's 
disposal,  a  way  might  have  been  found  of  doing  the  poet  good  by 
stealth :  he  sent  five  pounds,  because  he  could  not  send  ten,  and 
it  would  have  saved  him  from  some  sarcastic  remarks,  and  some 
pangs  of  heart,  had  he  said  so  at  once." 

Mr.  Thomson  has  attempted  a  defence  of  himself  about  once 
every  seven  years,  but  has  always  made  the  matter  worse,  by 
putting  it  on  wrong  grounds.  In  a  letter  to  that  other  Arcadian, 
Josiah  Walker,  he  says — many  years  ago — "  Now,  the  fact  is, 
that  notwithstanding  the  united  labors  of  all  the  men  of  genius 
who  have  enriched  my  Collection,  I  am  not  even  yet  compensated 
for  the  precious  time  consutned  hy  me  in  poring  over  musty  vo- 
lumes, and  in  corresponding  with  every  amateur  and  poet,  hy  whose 
means  I  expected  to  make  any  valuable  addition  to  our  national 
music  and  song  ;—for  the  exertion  and  money  it  cost  me  to  obtain 
accompaniments  from  the  greatest  masters  of  harmony  in  Vien- 
na ;  and  for  the  sums  paid  to  engravers,  printers,  and  others." 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  309 

Let  us  separate  the  items  of  this  account.  The  money  laid  out 
by  him  must  stand  by  itself — and  for  that  outlay,  he  had  then 
been  compensated  by  the  profits  of  the  sale  of  the  Collection. 
Those  profits,  we  do  not  doubt,  had  been  much  exaggerated  by 
public  opinion,  but  they  had  then  been  considerable  an^  have 
since  been  great.  Our  undivided  attention  has  therefor^' to  be 
turned  to  "  his  precious  time  consumed,*'  and  to  its  inadequate 
compensation.  And  the  first  question  that  naturally  occui*s  to 
every  reader  to  ask  himself  is — "in  what  sense  are  we  to  take 
the  terms  '  time,'  '  precious,'  and  '  consumed  V  "  Inasmuch  as 
"  time  "  is  only  another  word  for  life,  it  is  equally  "  precious"  to 
all  men.  Take  it  then  to  mean  leisure  hours,  in  which  men  seek 
for  relaxation  and  enjoyment.  Mr.  Thomson  tells  us  that  he  was, 
from  early  youth,  an  enthusiast  in  music  and  in  poetry ;  and  it 
puzzles  us  to  conceive  what  he  means  by  talking  of  "  his  precious 
time  being  consumed"  in  such  studies.  To  an  enthusiast,  a 
"musty  volume"  is  a  treasure  beyond  the  wealth  of  Ind — to 
pore  over  "  musty  volumes  "  sweet  as  to  gaze  on  melting  eyes — 
he  hugs  them  to  his  heart.  They  are  their  own  exceeding  great 
reward — and  we  cannot  listen  to  any  claim  for  pecuniary  com- 
pensation. Then  who  ever  heard,  before  or  since,  of  an  enthu- 
siast in  poetry  avowing  before  the  world,  that  he  had  not  been 
sufficiently  compensated  in  money,  "  for  the  precious  time  con- 
sumed by  him  in  corresponding  with  Poets  ?  "  Poets  are  prover- 
bially an  irritable  race ;  still  there  is  something  about  them  that 
makes  them  very  engaging — and  we  cannot  bring  ourselves  to 
think  that  George  Thomson's  "  precious  time  consumed  "  in  cor- 
responding with  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Thomas  Campbell,  Joanna 
Baillie,  and  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  deserved  "  compensation."  As 
to  amateurs,  we  mournfully  grant  they  are  burthensome  ;  yet 
even  that  burthen  may  uncomplainingly  be  borne  by  an  Editor 
who  "  expects  by  their  means  to  make  any  valuable  addition  to 
our  national  music  and  song ;"  and  it  cannot  be  denied,  that  the 
creatures  have  often  good  ears,  and  turn  off  tolerable  verses. 
Finally,  if  by  "  precious  "  he  means  valuable,  in  a  Politico  Eco- 
nomical sense,  we  do  not  see  how  Mr.  Thomson's  time  could  have 
been  consumed  more  productively  to  himself ;  nor  indeed  how  he 
could  have  made  any  money  at  all  by  a  different  employment  of 
15 


h 


210  THE  GENIUS  AND 


it.  In  every  sense,  therefore,  in  which  the  words  are  construed, 
they  are  equally  absurd  ;  and  all  who  read  them  are  forced  to 
think  of  one  whose  "  precious  time  was  indeed  consumed  " — to 
his  fatal  loss — the  too  generous,  the  self-devoted  Burns — but  for 
whose  "  uncompensated  exertions,"  "  The  Melodies  of  Scotland  " 
would  have  been  to  the  Editor  a  ruinous  concern,  in  place  of  one 
which  for  nearly  half  a  century  must  have  been  yielding  him  a 
greater  annual  income  than  the  Poet  would  have  enjoyed  had  he 
been  even  a  Supervisor. 

Mr.  Thomson  has  further  put  forth  in  his  letter  to  Robert  Chal- 
mers, and  not  now  for  the  first  time,  this  most  injudicious  defence. 
*'  Had  I  been  a  selfish  or  avaricious  man,  I  had  a  fair  opportuni- 
ty, upon  the  death  of  the  poet,  to  put  money  in  my  pocket ;  for 
1  might  then  have  published,  for  my  own  behoof,  all  the  beauti- 
ful lyrics  he  had  written  for  me,  the  original  manuscripts  of  which 
were  in  my  possession.  But  instead  of  doing  this,  I  was  no 
sooner  informed  that  the  friends  of  the  poet's  family  had  come  to 
a  resolution  to  collect  his  works,  and  to  publish  them,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  family,  and  that  they  thought  it  of  importance  to 
include  my  MSS.  as  being  likely,  from  their  number,  their  novel- 
ty, and  their  beauty,  to  prove  an  attraction  to  subscribers,  than  I 
felt  it  my  duty  to  put  them  at  once  in  possession  of  all  the  songs, 
and  of  the  correspondence  between  tjie  poet  and  myself;  and 
accordingly,  through  Mr.  John  Syme  of  Ryedale,  I  transmitted 
the  whole  to  Dr.  Currie,  who  had  been  prevailed  on,  immensely 
to  the  advantage  of  Mrs.  Burns  and  her  children,  to  take  on  him- 
self the  task  of  editor.  For  this  surrendering  the  manuscripts, 
I  received  both  verbally  and  in  writing,  the  warm  thanks  of  the 
trustees  for  the  family — Mr.  John  Syme  and  Mr.  Gilbert  Burns 
— who  considered  what  I  had  done  as  a  fair  return  for  the  poet's 
generosity  of  conduct  to  me."  Of  course  he  retained  the  exclu- 
sive right  of  publishing  the  songs  with  the  music  in  his  Collec- 
tion. Now,  what  if  he  had  refused  to  surrender  the  manuscripts  ? 
The  whole  world  would  have  accused  him  of  robbing  the  widow 
and  orphan,  and  he  would  have  been  hooted  out  of  Scotland. 
George  Thomson,  rather  than  have  done  so,  would  have  suffered 
himself  to  be  pressed  to  death  between  two  mill-stones  ;  and  yet 
he  not  only  instances  his  having  "  surrendered  the  MSS.  as  a 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  211 

proof  of  the  calumnious  nature  of  the  abuse  with  which  he  had 
been  assailed  by  anonymous  scribblers,  but  is  proud  of  the  thanks 
of  "  the  trustees  of  the  family,  who  considered  what  I  had  done 
as  a  fair  return  for  the  poet's  generosity  of  conduct  to  me." 
Setting  aside,  then,  "the  calumnies  of  anonymous  scribblers," 
with  one  and  all  of  which  we  are  unacquainted,  we  have  shown 
that  Josiah  Walker,  in  his  foolish  remarks  on  this  affair,  whereby 
he  outraged  the  common  feelings  of  humanity,  left  his  friend  just 
where  he  stood  before — that  Lord  Woodhouselee  knew  nothing 
whatever  about  the  matter,  and  in  his  good  nature  has  made  as- 
sertions absurdly  untrue — that  Mr.  Thomson's  own  defence  of 
himself  is  in  all  respects  an  utter  failure,  and  mainly  depends  on 
the  supposition  of  a  case  unexampled  in  a  Christian  land — that 
Lockhart  with  unerring  finger  has  indicated  where  the  fault  lay — 
and  that  Cuninghame  has  accounted  for  it  by  a  reason  that  with 
candid  judges  must  serve  to  reduce  it  to  one  of  a  very  pardona- 
ble kind  ;  the  avowal  of  which  from  the  first,  would  have  saved  a 
worthy  man  from  some  unjust  obloquy,  and  at  least  as  much  unde- 
served commendation — the  truth  being  now  apparent  to  all,  that 
"  his  poverty,  not  his  will,  consented  "  to  secure  on  the  terms  of 
non-payment,  a  hundred  and  twenty  songs  from  the  greatest 
lyrical  poet  of  his  country,  who  during  the  years  he  wqs  tLus  lav- 
ishing away  the  effusions  of  his  matchless  genius,  witnout  fee  or 
reward,  was  in  a  state  bordering  on  destitution,  and  as  the  pen 
dropt  from  his  hand,  did  not  leave  sufficient  to  defray  the  expen- 
ses of  a  decent  funeral. 

We  come  now  to  contemplate  his  dying  days  ;  and  mournful 
as  the  contemplation  is,  the  close  of  many  an  illustrious  life  has 
been  far  more  distressing,  involved  in  far  thicker  darkness,  and 
far  heavier  storms.  From  youth  he  had  been  visited — we  shall 
not  say  haunted — by  presentiments  of  an  early  death  ;  he  knew 
well  that  the  profound  melancholy  that  often  settled  down  upon 
his  whole  being,  suddenly  changing  day  into  night,  arose  from 
his  organization  ; — and  it  seems  as  if  the  finest  still  bordered  on 
disease — disease  in  his  case  perhaps  hereditary — for  his  father 
was  often  -sadder  than  even  "  the  toil-worn  cottar  "  needed  to  be, 
and  looked  like  a  man  subject  to  inward  trouble.  His  character 
was  somewhat  stern  ;  and  we  can  believe  that  in  its  austerity  he 


2J2  THE  GENIUS  AND 


found  a  safeguard  against  passion,  that  nevertheless  may  shake 
the  life  it  cannot  wreck.  But  the  son  wanted  the  father's  firm- 
ness ;  and  in  his  veins  there  coursed  more  impetuous  blood.  The 
very  fire  of  genius  consumed  him,  coming  and  going  in  fit- 
ful flashes  ;  his  genius  itself  may  almost  be  called  a  passion,  so 
vehement  was  it,  and  so  turbulent — though  it  had  its  scenes  of 
blissful  quietude  ;  his  heart  too  seldom  suffered  itself  to  be  at 
rest ;  many  a  fever  travelled  through  his  veins  ;  his  calmest 
nights  were  liable  to  be  broken  in  upon  by  the  worst  of  dreams — 
waking  dreams  from  which  there  is  no  deliverance  in  a  sudden 
start — of  which  the  misery  is  felt  to  be  no  delusion — which  are 
not  dispelled  by  the  morning  light,  but  accompany  their  victim 
as  he  walks  out  into  the  day,  and  among  the  dew,  and  surround- 
ed as  he  is  with  the  beauty  of  rejoicing  nature,  tempt  him  to 
curse  the  day  he  was  born. 

Yet  let  us  not  call  the  life  of  Burns  unhappy — nor  at  its  close 
shut  our  eyes  to  the  manifold  blessings  showered  by  heaven  on 
the  Poet's  lot.  Many  of  the  mental  sufierings  that  helped  most 
to  wear  him  out,  originated  in  his  own  restless  nature — "  by  pru- 
dent, cautious,  self-control "  he  might  have  subdued  some  and 
tempered  others — better  regulation  was  within  his  power — and, 
like  all  men,  he  paid  the  penalty  of  neglect  of  duty,  or  of  its 
violation.  But  what  loss  is  hardest  to  bear  ?  The  loss  of  the 
beloved.  All  other  wounds  are  slight  to  those  of  the  affections. 
Let  Fortune  do  her  worst — so  that  Death  be  merciful.  Burns 
went  to  his  own  grave  without  having  been  commanded  to  look 
down  into  another's  where  all  was  buried.  "  I  have  lately  drunk 
deep  of  the  cup  of  affliction.  The  autumn  robbed  me  of  my 
only  daughter  and  darling  child,  and  that  at  a  distance  too,  and 
so  rapidly,  as  to  put  it  out  of  my  power  to  pay  the  last  duties  to 
her."  The  flower  withered,  and  he  wept — ^but  his  four  pretty 
boys  were  soon  dancing  again  in  their  glee — their  mother's  heart 
was  soon  composed  again  to  cheerfulness — and  her  face  without 
a  shadow.  Anxiety  for  their  sakes  did  indeed  keep  preying  on 
his  heart ; — but  what  would  that  anxiety  have  seemed  to  him, 
had  he  been  called  upon  to  look  back  upon  it  in  anguish  because 
they  were  not  ?     Happiness  too  great  for  this  earth !     If  in  a 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  213 

dream  for  one  short  hour  restored,  that  would  have  been  like  an 
hour  in  heaven. 

Burns  had  not  been  well  for  a  twelvemonth ;  and  though  no- 
body seems  even  then  to  have  thought  him  dying,  on  the  return 
of  spring,  which  brought  him  no  strength,  he  knew  that  his  days 
were  numbered.  Intense  thought,  so  it  be  calm,  is  salutary  to 
life.  It  is  emotion  that  shortens  our  days  by  hurrying  life's  pul- 
sations— till  the  heart  can  no  more,  and  runs  down  like  a  disor- 
dered time-piece.  We  said  nobody  seems  to  have  thought  him 
dying ; — yet  after  the  event  everybody,  on  looking  back  on  it, 
remembered  seeing  death  in  his  face.  It  is  when  thinking  of 
those  many  months  of  decline  and  decay,  that  we  feel  pity  and 
sorrow  for  his  fate,  and  that  along  with  them  other  emotions  will 
arise,  without  our  well  knowing  towards  whom,  or  by  what  name 
they  should  be  called,  but  partaking  of  indignation,  and  shame, 
and  reproach,  as  if  some  great  wrong  had  been  done,  and  might 
have  been  rectified  before  death  came  to  close  the  account.  Not 
without  blame  somewhere  could  such  a  man  have  been  so  neg- 
lected— so  forgotten — so  left  alone  to  sicken  and  die. 

**  Oh,  Scotia !  my  dear,  my  native  soil. 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  heaven  is  sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 
Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content !" 

No  son  of  Scotland  did  ever  regard  her  with  more  fiilial  affec- 
tion— did  ever  in  strains  so  sweet  sing  of  the  scenes  "  that  make 
her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad '' — and  yet  his  mother 
stretched  not  out  her  hand  to  sustain — when  it  was  too  late  to 
save — her  own  Poet  as  he  was  sinking  into  an  untimely  grave. 
But  the  dying  man  complained  not  of  her  ingratitude — he  loved 
her  too  well  to  the  last  to  suspect  her  of  such  sin — there  was 
nothing  for  him  to  forgive — and  he  knew  that  he  would  have  a 
place  for  ever  ia  her  memory.  Her  rulers  were  occupied  with 
great  concerns — in  which  all  thoughts  of  self  were  merged  !  and 
therefore  well  might  they  forget  her  Poet,  who  was  but  a  cottar's 
son  and  a  gauger.  In  such  forgetfulness  they  were  what  other 
rulers  have  been,  and  will  be, — and  Coleridge  lived  to  know  that 
the  great  ones  of  his  own  land  could  be  as  heartless  in  his  own 


214  THE  GENIUS  AND 


case  as  the  **  Scotch  nobility  '*  m  tJ[iat  of  Burns,  for  whose  brows 
his  youthful  genius  wove  a  wreath  of  scorn.  "  The  rapt  one  of 
Uie  godlike  forehead,  the  heaven-eyed  creature  sleeps  in  earth" — • 
t)at  who  among  them  cared  for  the  long  self-seclusion  of  the 
white-headed  sage — for  his  sick  bed,  or  his  grave  ? 

Turn  we  then  from  the  Impersonation  named  Scotland — from 
her  rulers — from  her  nobility  and  gentry — to  the  personal 
friends  of  Burns.  Could  they  have  served  him  in  his  straits  ? 
And  how  ?  If  they  could,  then  were  they  bound  to  do  so  by  a 
stricter  obligation  than  lay  upon  any  other  party  ;  and  if  they 
had  the  will  as  well  as  the  power,  'twould  have  been  easy  to  find 
a  way.  The  duties  of  friendship  are  plain,  simple,  sacred — 
and  to  perform  them  is  delightful ;  yet,  so  far  as  we  can  see, 
they  were  not  performed  here — if  they  were,  let  us  have  ihe 
names  of  the  beneficent  who  visited  Burns  every  other  day  dur- 
ing the  months  disease  had  deprived  him  of  all  power  to  follow 
his  calling  ?  Who  insisted  on  helping  to  keep  the  family  in 
comfort  till  his  strength  might  be  restored  ?  For  example,  to 
pay  his  house  rent  for  a  year?  Mr.  Syme,  of  Ryedale,  told 
Dr.  Currie,  that  Burns  had  "  many  firm  friends  in  Dumfries," 
who  would  not  have  suffered  the  haberdasher  to  put  him  into 
jail,  and  that  his  were  the  fears  of  a  man  in  delirium.  Did  not 
those  "  firm  friends  "  know  that  he  was  of  necessity  very  poor  ? 
And  did  any  one  of  them  offer  to  lend  him  thirty  shillings  to 
pay  for  his  three  weeks'  lodgings  at  the  Brow  ?  He  was  not  in 
delirium — till  within  two  days  of  his  death.  Small  sums  he  had 
occasionally  borrowed  and  repaid  ;  but  from  people  as  poor  as 
himself;  such  as  kind  Craig,  the  schoolmaster,  to  whom,  at  his 
death,  he  owed  a  pound — never  from  the  more  opulent  townfolk 
or  the  gentry  in  the  neighborhood,  of  not  one  of  whom  is  it  re- 
corded that  he  or  she  accommodated  the  dying  Poet  with  a  loan 
sufficient  to  pay  for  a  week's  porridge  and  milk.  Let  us  have 
no  more  disgusting  palaver  about  his  pride.  His  heart  would 
have  melted  within  him  at  any  act  of  considerate  friendship 
done  to  his  family ;  and  so  far  from  feeling  that  by  accepting  it 
he  had  become  a  pauper,  he  would  have  reco^ized  in  the  doer 
of  it  a  brother,  and  taken  him  into  his  heart.  And  had  he  not 
in  all  the  earth,  one  single  such  Friend  ?     His  brother  Gilbert 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  215 

was  struggling  with  severe  difficulties  at  Mossgiel,  and  was  then 
unable  to  assist  him  ;  and  his  excellent  cousin  at  Montrose  had 
enough  to  do  to  maintain  his  own  family ;  but  as  soon  as  he 
knew  how  matters  stood,  he  showed  that  the  true  Burns'  blood 
was  in  his  heart,  and  after  the  Poet's  death,  was  as  kind  as  man 
could  be  to  his  widow  and  children. 

What  had  come  over  Mrs.  Dunlop  that  she  should  have 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  or  forsaken  him  ?  "  These  many 
months  you  have  been  two  packets  in  my  debt — what  sin  of 
ignorance  I  have  committed  against  so  highly  valued  a  friend  I 
am  utterly  at  a  loss  to  guess  !  Alas  !  Madam,  ill  can  I  afford, 
at  this  time,  to  be  deprived  of  any  of  the  small  remnant  of  my 
pleasures.  *  *  *  I  had  scarcely  begun  to  recover 
from  that  shock  (the  death  of  his  little  daughter),  when  I  be- 
came myself  the  victim  of  a  most  severe  rheumatic  fever,  and 
long  the  die  spun  doubtful ;  until,  after  many  weeks  of  a  sick 
bed,  it  seems  to  have  turned  up  life,  and  I  am  beginning  to  crawl 
across  my  room,  and  once,  indeed,  have  been  before  my  own 
door  in  the  street."  No  answer  came  ',  and  three  months  after 
he  wrote  from  the  Brow,  "  Madam — I  have  written  you  so  often 
without  receiving  any  answer,  that  I  would  not  trouble  you 
again  but  for  the  circumstances  in  which  I  am.  An  illness 
which  has  long  hung  about  me,  in  all  probability  will  speedily 
send  me  beyond  that  bourne  whence  no  traveller  returns.  Your 
friendship,  with  which  for  many  years  you  honored  me,  was  a 
friendship  dearest  to  my  soul.  Your  conversation,  and  espe- 
cially your  correspondence,  were  at  once  highly  entertaining 
and  instructive.  With  what  pleasure  did  I  use  to  break  up  the 
seal !  The  remembrance  yet  adds  one  pulse  more  to  my  poor 
palpitating  heart.  Farewell.  R.  B."  Currie  says,  "Burns 
had  the  pleasure  of  receiving  a  satisfactory  explanation  of  his 
friend's  silence,  and  an  assurance  of  the  continuance  of  her 
friendship  to  his  widow  and  children ;  an  assurance  that  has 
been  amply  fulfilled.  That  "satisfactory  explanation"  should 
have  been  given  to  the  world — it  should  be  given  yet — for  with- 
out it  such  incomprehensible  silence  must  continue  to  seem 
cruel  J  and  it  is  due  to  the  memory  of  one  whom  Burns  loved 


216  THE  GENIUS  AND 


and  honored  to  the  last,  to  vindicate  on  her  part  the  faithfulness 
of  the  friendship  which  preserves  her  name. 

Maria  Riddel,  a  lady  of  fine  talents  and  accomplishments,  and 
though  somewhat  capricious  in  the  consciousness  of  her  mental 
and  personal  attractions,  yet  of  most  amiable  disposition,  and 
of  an  affectionate  and  tender  heart,  was  so  little  aware  of  the 
condition  of  the  Poet,  whose  genius  she  could  so  well  appreciate, 
that  only  a  few  weeks  before  his  death,  when  he  could  hardly 
crawl,  he  had  by  letter  to  decline  acceding  to  her  "  desire  that 
he  would  go  to  the  birth-day  assembly,  on  the  4th  June,  to  show 
his  loyalty  /"  Alas  !  he  was  fast  "  wearin*  awa  to  the  land  o' 
the  leal ;"  and  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  weeks,  that  lady  gay, 
herself  in  poor  health,  and  saddened  out  of  such  vanities  by 
sincerest  sorrow,  was  struck  with  his  appearance  on  entering 
the  room.  "  The  stamp  of  death  was  imprinted  on  his  features. 
He  seemed  already  touching  the  brink  of  eternity.  His  first 
salutation  was — '  Well,  Madam,  have  you  any  commands  for 
the  next  world  V  "  The  best  men  have  indulged  in  such  sallies, 
on  the  brink  of  the  grave.  Nor  has  tiie  utterance  of  words  like 
these,  as  life's  taper  was  flickering  in  the  socket,  been  felt  to 
denote  a  mood  of  levity  unbecoming  a  creature  about  to  go  to 
his  account.  On  the  contrary,  there  is  something  very  affect- 
ing in  the  application  of  such  formulas  of  speech  as  had  been 
of  familiar  use  all  his  days,  on  his  passage  through  the  shadow 
of  time,  now  that  his  being  is  about  to  be  liberated  into  the 
light  of  eternity,  where  our  mortal  language  is  heard  not,  and 
spirit  communicates  with  spirit  through  organs  not  made  of  clay, 
having  dropped  the  body  like  a  garment. 

In  that  interview,  the  last  recorded,  and  it  is  recorded  well — 
pity  so  much  should  have  been  suppressed — "  he  spoke  of  his 
death  without  any  of  the  ostentation  of  philosophy,  but  with 
firmness  as  well  as  feeling,  as  an  event  likely  to  happen  very 
soon,  and  which  gave  him  concern  chiefly  from  leaving  his  poor 
children  so  young  and  unprotected,  and  his  wife  in  so  interesting 
a  situation,  in  hourly  expectation  of  lying  in  of  a  fifth."  Yet, 
during  the  whole  afternoon,  he  was  cheerful,  even  gay,  and  dis- 
posed for  pleasantry ;  such  is  the  power  of  the  human  voice 
and  the  human  eye  over  the  human  heart,  almost  to  the  re- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  317 

suscitation  of  drowned  hope,  when  they  are  both  suffused  with 
affection,  when  tones  are  as  tender  as  tears,  yet  can  better 
hide  the  pity  that  ever  and  anon  will  be  gushing  from  the  lidsn 
of  grief.  He  expressed  deep  contrition  for  having  been  betrayed 
by  his  inferior  nature  and  vicious  sympathy  with  the  dissolute, 
into  impurities  in  verse,  which  he  knew  were  floating  about 
ajnong  people  of  loose  lives,  and  might  on  his  death  be  collected 
to  the  hurt  of  his  moral  character.  Never  had  Burns  been 
"  hired  minstrel  of  voluptuous  blandishment,"  nor  by  such  un- 
guarded freedom  of  speech  had  he  ever  sought  to  corrupt ;  but 
emulating  the  ribald  wit  and  coarse  humor  of  some  of  the  worst 
old  ballants  current  among  the  lower  orders  of  the  people,  of 
whom  the  moral  and  religious  are  often  tolerant  of  indecencies 
to  a  strange  degree,  he  felt  that  he  had  sinned  against  his  ge- 
nius. A  miscreant,  aware  of  his  poverty,  had  made  him  an 
offer  of  fifty  pounds  for  a  collection,  which  he  repelled  with  the 
horror  of  remorse.  Such  things  can  hardly  be  said  to  have 
existence ;  the  polluted  perishes,  or  shovelled  aside  from  the 
socialities  of  mirthful  men,  are  nearly  obsolete,  except  among 
these  whose  thoughtlessness  is  so  great  as  to  be  sinful,  among 
whom  the  distinction  ceases  between  the  weak  and  the  wicked. 
From  such  painful  thoughts  he  turned  to  his  poetry,  that  had 
every  year  been  becoming  dearer  and  dearer  to  the  people,  and 
he  had  comfort  in  the  assurance  that  it  was  pure  and  good ;  and 
he  wished  to  live  a  little  longer  that  he  might  mend  his  Songs, 
for  through  them  he  felt  he  would  survive  in  the  hearts  of  the 
dwellers  in  cottage-homes  all  over  Scotland ;  and  in  the  fond 
imagination  of  his  heart  Scotland  to  him  was  all  the  world. 

"  He  spoke  of  his  death  without  any  of  the  ostentation  of  phi-, 
losophy,"  and  perhaps  without  any  reference  to  religion  ;  for 
dying  men  often  keep  their  profoundest  thoughts  to  themselves, 
except  in  the  chamber  in  which  they  believe  they  are  about  to 
have  the  last  look  of  the  objects  of  their  earthly  love,  and  there 
they  give  them  utterance  in  a  few  words  of  hope  and  trust. 
While  yet  walking  about  in  the  open  air,  and  visiting  their  friends, 
they  continue  to  converse  about  the  things  of  this  life  in  lan- 
guage so  full  of  animation,  that  you  might  think,  but  for  some- 
thing about  their  eyes,  that  they  are  unconscious  of  their  doom ; 


218  THE  GENIUS  AND 


and  so  at  times  they  are  ;  for  the  customary  pleasure  of  social 
intercourse  does  not  desert  them ;  the  .sight  of  others  well  and 
happy  beguiles  them  of  the  mournful  knowledge  that  their  own 
term  has  nearly  expired,  and  in  that  oblivion  they  are  cheerful 
as  the  persons  seem  to  be  who  for  their  sakes  assume  a  smiling 
aspect  in  spite  of  struggling  tears.  So  was  it  with  Burns  at  the 
Brow.  But  he  had  his  Bible  with  him  in  his  lodgings,  and  he 
read  it  almost  continually — often  when  seated  on  a  bank,  from 
which  he  had  difficulty  in  rising  without  assistance,  for  his  weak- 
ness was  extreme,  and  in  his  emaciation  he  was  like  a  ghost. 
The  fire  of  his  eye  was  not  dimmed — indeed  fever  had  lighted 
it  up  beyond  even  its  natural  brightness ;  and  though  his  voice, 
once  so  various,  was  now  hollow,  his  discourse  was  still  that  of 
a  Poet.  To  the  last  he  loved  the  sunshine,  the  grass,  and  the 
flowers ;  to  the  last  he  had  a  kind  look  and  word  for  the  pass- 
ers-by, who  all  knew  it  was  Burns.  Laboring  men,  on  their 
way  from  work,  would  step  aside  to  the  two  or  three  houses 
called  the  Brow,  to  know  if  there  was  any  hope  of  his  life ;  and 
it  is  not  to  be  doubted  that  devout  people  remembered  him,  who 
had  written  the  Cottar's  Saturday  Night,  in  their  prayers.  Ifls 
sceptical  doubts  no  longer  troubled  him  ;  they  had  never  been 
more  than  shadows ;  and  he  had  at  last  the  faith  of  a  confiding 
Christian.  We  are  not  even  to  suppose  that  his  heart  was  always 
disquieted  within  him  because  of  the  helpless  condition  of  his 
widow  and  orphans.  That  must  have  been  indeed  with  him  a 
dismal  day  on  which  he  wrote  three  letters  about  them  so  full  of 
anguish ;  but  to  give  vent  to  grief  in  passionate  outcries  usually 
assuages  it,  and  tranquillity  sometimes  steals  upon  despair.  His 
belief  that  he  was  so  sunk  in  debt  was  a  delusion — not  of  deli- 
rium,  but  of  the  fear  that  is  in  love.  And  comfort  must  have 
come  to  him  in  the  conviction  that  his  country  would  not  suffer 
the  family  of  her  Poet  to  be  in  want.  As  long  as  he  had  health 
they  were  happy,  though  poor ;  as  long  as  he  was  alive,  they 
were  not  utterly  destitute.  That  on  his  death  they  would  be 
paupers,  was  a  dread  that  could  have  had  no  abiding  place  in  a 
heart  that  knew  how  it  had  beat  for  Scotland,  and  in  the  power 
of  genius  had  poured  out  all  its  love  on  her  fields  and  her  people. 
His  heart  was  pierced  with  the  same  wounds  that  extort  lamen- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  219 

tations  from  the  death-beds  of  ordinary  men,  thinking  of  what 
will  become  of  wife  and  children  ;  but  like  the  pouring  of  oil 
upon  them  by  some  gracious  hand,  must  have  been  the  frequent 
recurrence  of  the  belief — "  On  my  death  people  will  pity  them, 
and  care  for  them  for  my  name's  sake."  Some  little  matter  of 
money  he  knew  he  should  leave  behind  him — the  two  hundred 
pounds  he  had  lent  to  his  brother  ;  and  it  sorely  grieved  him  to 
think  that  Gilbert  might  be  ruined  by  having  to  return  it.  What 
brotherly  affection  was  there  !  They  had  not  met  for  a  good 
many  years  ;  but  personal  intercourse  was  not  required  to  sus- 
tain their  friendship.  At  the  Brow  often  must  the  dying  Poet 
have  remembered  Mossgiel. 

On  the  near  approach  of  death  he  returned  to  his  own  house, 
in  a  spring-cart;  and  having  left  it  at  the  foot  of  the  street,  he  could 
just  totter  up  to  his  door.  The  last  words  his  hand  had  strength 
to  put  on  paper  were  to  his  wife's  father,  and  were  written  pro- 
bably within  an  hour  of  his  return  home.  "  My  dear  Sir — Do, 
for  heaven's  sake,  send  Mrs.  Armour  here  immediately.  My 
wife  is  hourly  expected  to  be  put  to  bed !  Good  God  !  what 
a  situation  for  her  to  be  in,  poor  girl,  without  a  friend  !  I 
returned  from  sea-bathing  quarters  to-day ;  and  my  medical 
friends  would  almost  persuade  me  that  I  am  better ;  but  I 
think  and  feel  that  my  strength  is  so  gone,  that  the  disorder 
will  prove  fatal  to  me.  Your  son-in-law,  R.  B."  That  is  not 
the  letter  of  a  man  in  delirium  ;  nor  was  the  letter  written  a 
few  days  before  from  the  Brow  to  "  my  dearest  love."  But 
next  day  he  was  delirious,  and  the  day  after  too,  though  on 
being  spoken  to  he  roused  himself  into  collected  and  composed 
thought,  and  was,  ever  and  anon,  for  a  few  minutes  himself — 
Robert  Burns.  In  his  delirium  there  was  nothing  to  distress  the 
listeners  and  the  lookers  on ;  words  were  heard  that  to  them  had 
no  meaning ;  mistakings  made  by  the  parting  spirit  among  its 
language  now  in  confusion  breaking  up  ;  and  sometimes  words 
of  trifling  import  about  trifling  things — about  incidents  and 
events  unnoticed  in  their  happening,  but  now  strangely  cared 
for  in  their  final  repassing  before  the  closed  eyes  just  ere  the 
dissolution  of  the  dream  of  a  dream.  Nor  did  his  death-bed 
want  for  affectionate  and  faithful  service.     The  few  who  were 


320  THE  GENIUS  AND 

privileged  to  tend  it  did  so  tenderly  and  reverently — now  by  the 
side  of  the  sick  wife,  and  now  by  that  of  the  dying  husband. 
Maxwell,  a  kind  physician,  came  often  to  gaze  in  sadness  where 
no  skill  could  relieve.  Findlater,  supervisor  of  excise,  sat  by  his 
bed-side  the  night  before  he  died  ;  and  Jessie  Lewars,  daughter 
and  sister  of  a  gauger,  was  his  sick  nurse.  Had  he  been  her 
own  father,  she  could  not  have  done  her  duty  with  a  more  per- 
fect devotion  of  her  whole  filial  heart — and  her  name  will  never 
die,  "  here  eternized  on  earth"  by  the  genius  of  the  Poet  who, 
for  all  her  Christian  kindness  to  him  and  his,  had  long  cherished 
toward  her  the  tenderest  gratitude.  His  children  had  been  taken 
care  of  by  friends,  and  were  led  in  to  be  near  him,  now  that  his 
hour  was  come.  His  wife  in  her  own  bed  knew  it,  as  soon  as 
her  Robert  was  taken  from  her ;  and  the  great  Poet  of  the  Scot- 
tish people,  who  had  been  born  "  in  the  auld  clay  biggin  "  on  a 
stormy  winter  night,  died  in  an  humble  tenement  on  a  bright 
summer  morning,  among  humble  folk,  who  composed  his  body, 
and  according  to  custom  strewed  around  it  flowers  brought  from 
their  own  gardens. 

Great  was  the  grief  of  the  people  for  their  Poet's  death.  They 
felt  that  they  had  lost  their  greatest  man  ;  and  it  is  no  exagge- 
ration to  say  that  Scotland  was  saddened  on  the  day  of  his  fune- 
ral. It  is  seldom  that  tears  are  shed  even  close  to  the  grave 
beyond  the  inner  circle  that  narrows  round  it ;  but  that  day 
there  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  many  far  off  at  their  work,  and 
that  night  there  was  silence  in  thousands  of  cottages  that  had 
so  often  heard  his  songs — how  sweeter  far  than  any -other, 
whether  mournfully  or  merrily  to  old  accordant  melodies  they 
won  their  way  into  the  heart !  The  people  had  always  loved 
him ;  they  best  understood  his  character,  its  strength  and  its 
weakness.  Not  among  them  at  any  time  had  it  been  harshly 
judged,  and  they  allowed  him  now  the  sacred  privileges  of  the 
grave.  The  religious  have  done  so  ever  since,  pitying  more 
than  condemning,  nor  afraid  to  praise  ;  for  they  have  confessed 
to  themselves,  that  had  there  been  a  window  in  their  breasts  as 
there  was  in  that  of  Burns,  worse  sights  might  have  been  seen — 
a  darker  revelation.  His  country  charged  herself  with  the 
care  of  them  he  had  loved  so  well,  and  the  spirit  in  which  she 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  221 


performed  her  duty  is  the  best  proof  that  her  neglect — if  neglect 
at  any  time  there  were — of  her  Poet's  well-being  had  not  been 
wilful,  but  is  to  be  numbered  with  those  omissions  incident  to  all 
human  affairs,  more  to  be  lamented  than  blatned,  and  if  not 
to  be  forgotten,  surely  to  he  forgiven,  even  by  the  nations 
who  may  have  nothing  to  reproach  themselves  with  in  their  con- 
duct towards  any  of  their  great  poets.  England,  "  the  foremost 
land  of  all  this  world,"  was  not  slack  to  join  in  her  sister's  sor- 
row, and  proved  the  sincerity  of  her  own,  not  by  barren  words, 
but  fruitful  deeds,  and  best  of  all  by  fervent  love  and  admiration 
of  the  poetry  that  had  opened  up  so  many  delightful  views  into 
the  character  and  condition  of  our  "  bold  peasantry,  their  coun- 
try's pride,"  worthy  compatriots  with  her  own,  and  exhibiting 
in  different  Manners  the  same  national  Virtues. 

No  doubt  wonder  at  a  prodigy  had  mingled  in  many  minds 
with  admiration  of  the  ploughman's  poetry  ;  and  when  they  of 
their  wondering  found  an  end,  such  persons  began  to  talk  with 
abated  enthusiasm  of  his  genius  and  increased  severity  of  his 
character,  so  that  during  intervals  of  silence,  an  under  current 
of  detraction  was  frequently  heard  brawling  with  an  ugly  noise. 
But  the  main  stream  soon  ran  itself  clear ;  and  Burns  has  no 
abusers  now  out  of  the  superannuated  list ;  out  of  it — better  still 
— he  has  no  patrons.  In  our  youth  we  have  heard  him  spoken 
of  by  the  big- wigs  with  exceeding  condescension  ;  now  the 
tallest  men  know  that  to  see  his  features  rightly  they  must  look 
up.  Shakspeare,  Spencer,  and  Milton,  are  unapproachable ; 
but  the  present  era  is  the  most  splendid  in  the  history  of  our 
poetry — in  England  beginning  with  Cowper,  in  Scotland  with 
Burns.  Original  and  racy,  each  in  his  own  land  is  yet  unex- 
celled ;  immovably  they  both  keep  their  places — their  inherit- 
ance is  sure.  Changes  wide  and  deep,  for  better  and  for  worse, 
have  been  long  going  on  in  town  and  country.  There  is  now 
among  the  people  more  education — more  knowledge  than  at 
any  former  day.  Their  worldly  condition  is  more  prosperous, 
while  there  is  still  among  them  a  deep  religious  spirit.  By  that 
spirit  alone  can  they  be  secured  in  the  good,  and  saved  from  the 
evil  of  knowledge ;  but  the  spirit  of  poetry  is  akin  to  that  of  re- 
ligion, and  the  union  of  the  two  is  in  no  human  composition  more 


222  THE  GENIUS  AND  CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 

powerful  than  in  "  the  Cottar's  Saturday  Night."  "  Let  who 
may  have  the  making  of  the  laws  give  me  the  making  of  the 
ballads  of  a  people,"  is  a  profound  saying  ;  and  the  truth  it 
somewhat  paradoxically  expresses  is  in  much  as  applicable  to  a 
cultivated  and  intellectual  as  to  a  rude  and  imaginative  age. 
From  our  old  traditional  ballads  we  know  what  was  dearest  to 
the  hearts  and  souls  of  the  people.  How  much  deeper  must  be 
the  power  over  them  of  the  poems  and  songs  of  such  a  man  as 
Burns,  of  himself  alone  superior  in  genius  to  all  those  nameless 
minstrels,  and  of  a  nobler  nature;  and  yet  more  endeared  to 
them  by  pity  for  the  sorrows  that  clouded  the  close  of  his  life. 


A 


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